EUROPE 


£> 

ft* 


EUROPE  REVISED 


-OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGEL 


A.  TIP  IS  THE  ONE  FORM  OF  INSULT  THAT  ANYBODY  IN  EUROPE  WILL  TAKE 


EUROPE   REVISED 


BY 

IRVIN  S.   COBB 

AUTHOR  OF  "BACK  HOME,"  "THE  ESCAPE  OF  MR.  TRIMM," 

"ROUGHING  IT  DE  LUXE,"  "COBB'S  BILL  OF  FARE," 

"COBB'S  ANATOMY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPTBIOBT,    1913   AMD    1914 

BY  THE  CUBTIS  PUBLJSHIXO  COMPAHT 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 
BT  GEOBGB  H.  DOBAN  COMPACT 


TO 
MY    SMALL    DAUGHTER 

Who  bade  me  shed  a  tear  at 
the  tomb  of  Napoleon,  which  I 
was  very  glad  to  do,  because 
when  I  got  there  my  feet 
certainly  were  hurting  me. 


2125812 


NOTE 

The  picture  on  page  81  purporting  to  show 
the  undersigned  leaping  head  first  into  a  Ger- 
man feather-bed  does  the  undersigned  a  cruel 
injustice.  He  has  a  prettier  figure  than  that — 
oh,  oh,  much  prettier! 

The  reader  is  earnestly  entreated  not  to  look 
at  the  picture  on  page  81.    It  is  the  only  blot 
on  the  McCutcheon  of  this  book. 
Respectfully, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  WE  ARE  GOING  AWAY  FROM  HERE    ....  19 

II.  MY  BONNY  LIES  OVER  THE  OCEAN — AND  LIES 

AND  LIES  AND  LIES 38 

III.  BATHING  ONESELF  ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE  ...  57 

IV.  JACQUES;  THE  FORSAKEN 76 

V.  WHEN  THE  7  A.M.  TUT-TUT  LEAVES  FOR  ANY- 
WHERE        95 

VI.  LA  BELLE  FRANCE  BEING  THE  FIRST  STOP  .     .  101 

VII.  THENCE  ON  AND  ON  TO  VERBOTTEN-LAND     .     .  116 

VIII.     A  TALE  OF  A  STRING  BEAN 138 

IX.    THE  DEADLY  POULET  ROUTINE 161 

X.  MODES  OF  THE  MOMENT;  A  FASHION  ARTICLE     .  176 

XI.     DRESSED  TO  KILL 196 

XII.  NIGHT  LIFE — WITH  THE  LIFE  PART  MISSING      .  218 

XIII.  OUR  FRIEND — THE  ASSASSIN     .     .     .   ' .     .     .  237 

XIV.  THAT  GAY  PARESIS 257 

XV.     SYMPTOMS  OF  THE  DISEASE 278 

XVI.     As  DONE  IN  LONDON 299 

XVII.    BRITAIN  IN  TWENTY  MINUTES 319 

XVIII.     GUYED  OR  GUIDED? 343 

XIX.     VENICE  AND  THE  VENISONS 362 

XX.  THE  COMBUSTIBLE  CAPTAIN  OF  VIENNA  .     .     .  378 

XXI.  OLD  MASTERS  AND  OTHER  RUINS       ....  385 

XXII.  STILL  MORE  RUINS,  MOSTLY  ITALIAN  ONES       .  406 

XXIII.  MUCKRAKING  IN  OLD  POMPEII 421 

XXIV.  MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 428 

XXV.  BE  IT  EVER  So  HUMBLE  448 


[xi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

A  Tip  is  the  One  Form  of  Insult  That  Anybody  in  Europe 

Will  Take Frontispiece 

I  Tried  to  Remember  All  the  Conflicting  Advice  That  Had 

Been  Offered  to  Me 23 

But  the  Deck  Was  Unpleasantly  Congested  With  Great 

Burly  Brutes 33 

But  Oh,  My  Countrymen,  What  a  Change  From  What  Had 

Been! 47 

The  Bathing  Habit  of  Merrie  England  is  a  Venerable  Myth       67 

I  Had  Heard  that  One  Fell  Headlong  Into  Its  Smothering 

Folds 81 

Who  Can  Tell  When  the  Same  Fate  May  Strike  Some 

Other  Household! 87 

A  German  Cigar  Keeps  Off  Any  Disease  Except  the  Cholera: 

It  Gives  you  the  Cholera 97 

All  Ages  and  Sizes  Gathered  About  That  Small  Boy  and 

Gave  Him  Advice  at  the  Top  of  Their  Voices   .      .      .     105 

The  Sight  of  Women  Doing  the  Bulk  of  the  Hard  and  Dirty 

Farmwork  Becomes  Common 121 

The  Most  Ingenious  and  Wideawake  of  All  the  Earlier 

Rulers  of  Germany,  Bang  Verboten 129 

On  the  Nearer  Bank  Was  a  Village  Populated  by  Short 

People  and  Long  Dogs 143 

[xiii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

According  to  the  French  Version  of  the  Story  of  the  Flood 

Only  Two  Animals  Emerged  from  the  Ark    .      .      .      .     153 

I  Would  That  I  Might  Bring  an  Expedition  of  Europeans  to 
America  and  Personally  Conduct  It  Up  and  Down  Our 
Continent  and  Back  and  Forth  Crosswise  of  It  .  .  .  167 

English  Clothes  are  Not  Meant  for  Americans    ....     183 
He  Did  Not  Look  as  Though  He  Were  Alive     ....     199 

Pheasant  Shooting  is  the  Last  Word  in  the  English  Sporting 

Calendar 5205 

Being  Hunted  With  a  Swivel  Chair  is  What  Makes  the 

German  Wild  Boar  Wild 211 

Berlin  Abounds  in  Pleasure  Palaces,  So  Called       ....     223 

I  Am  Given  to  Understand  That  Vienna  Night  Life  is  the 

Wildest  of  All  Night  Life 231 

We  Stayed  Twenty  Minutes,  but  It  Must  Have  Been  an 

Off-Night  for  Stabbings 243 

SheTHad  Not  Done  Anything  to  Earn  a  Tip  That  I  Could 

"See 263 

Try  as  Hard  as  You  Please  to  See  the  Real  Paris,  the  Paris 

of  Small,  Mean  Graft  Intrudes  on  You 269 

The  Paris  Which  the  Casual  Male  Visitor  Samples  is  the 

Most  Overrated  Thing  on  Earth — and  the  Most  Costly .     285 

In  London,  Mind  You,  the  Newsboys  Do  Not  Shout  Their 

Extras 303 

And  at  a  Given  Hour  Everybody  Imbibes  Tea  Until  Further 

Orders 309 

He  would  Write  a  Letter  to  The  Times  Complaining  of  the 
Growing  Prevalence  of  Lions  in  the  Public  Thorough- 
fares   327 

Feeding  Hour  in  the  Parrot  Cage  at  the  Zoo  Never  Produced 

Anything  Like  So  Noisy  and  Animated  a  Scene  .      .     351 

[xiv] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

In  Venice  Even  the  Simple  Gondolier  Has  a  Secret  Under- 
standing With  All  Branches  of  the  Retail  Trade   .      .     369 

Abroad  We  House  Our  Embassies  Up  Back  Streets,  Next 

Door  to  Bird  and  Animal  Stores 381 

It  Must  Be  Months  Before  Some  of  Them  Quit  Panting     .     391 

If  We  Had  These  Catacombs  in  America  Wre  Should  Make 

Them  More  Attractive  for  Picnic  Parties       ....     399 

All  the  Guides  in  Rome  Follow  a  Regular  Routine  With 

the  Tourist 413 

She  is  Not  Going  to  Buy  Anything — She  is  Merely  Out 

Shopping 423 

I  Did  a  GoodJDeal  of  Reclining,  Coming  Back     ....     433 
Nearer  and  Nearer  Draws  That  Blessed  Dark-Blue  Strip     .     455 


EUROPE    REVISED 


CHAPTER  I 
WE  ARE  GOING  AWAY  FROM  HERE 


FOREWORD.— It  has  always  seemed  to 
me  that  the  principal  drawback  about 
the  average  guidebook  is  that  it  is  over- 
freighted with  facts.    Guidebooks  here- 
tofore have  made  a  specialty  of  facts — have 
abounded  in  them;  facts  to  be  found  on  every 
page  and  in  every  paragraph.    Reading  such  a 
work,  you  imagine  that  the  besotted  author 
said  to  himself,  "I  will  just  naturally  fill  this 
thing  chock-full  of  facts" — and  then  went  and 
did  so  to  the  extent  of  a  prolonged  debauch. 

Now  personally  I  would  be  the  last  one  in 
the  world  to  decry  facts  as  such.  In  the  ab- 
stract I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  them.  But 
facts,  as  someone  has  said,  are  stubborn  things; 
and  stubborn  things,  like  stubborn  people,  are 
frequently  tiresome.  So  it  occurred  to  me  that 
possibly  there  might  be  room  for  a  guidebook 
on  foreign  travel  which  would  not  have  a  single 
indubitable  fact  concealed  anywhere  about  its 
[19] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


person.  I  have  even  dared  to  hope  there  might 
be  an  actual  demand  on  the  part  of  the  general 
public  for  such  a  guidebook.  I  shall  endeavor 
to  meet  that  desire — if  it  exists. 

While  we  are  on  the  subject  I  wish  to  say 
there  is  probably  not  a  statement  made  by  me 
here  or  hereafter  which  cannot  readily  be  con- 
troverted. Communications  from  parties  de- 
siring to  controvert  this  or  that  assertion  will 
be  considered  in  the  order  received.  The  line 
forms  on  the  left  and  parties  will  kindly  avoid 
crowding.  Triflers  and  professional  contro- 
verters  save  stamps. 

With  these  few  introductory  remarks  we  now 
proceed  to  the  first  subject,  which  is  The  Sea: 
Its  Habits  and  Peculiarities,  and  the  Quaint 
Creatures  Found  upon  Its  Bosom. 

From  the  very  start  of  this  expedition  to 
Europe  I  labored  under  a  misapprehension. 
Everybody  told  me  that  as  soon  as  I  had  got 
my  sea  legs  I  would  begin  to  love  the  sea  with 
a  vast  and  passionate  love.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
I  experienced  no  trouble  whatever  in  getting 
my  sea  legs.  They  were  my  regular  legs,  the 
same  ones  I  use  on  land.  It  was  my  sea  stom- 
ach that  caused  all  the  bother.  First  I  was 
afraid  I  should  not  get  it,  and  that  worried 
me  no  little.  Then  I  got  it  and  was  regretful. 
However,  that  detail  will  come  up  later  in  a 
more  suitable  place.  I  am  concerned  now  with 
the  departure. 

[20] 


WE    ARE    GOING    AWAY    FROM    HERE 

Somewhere  forward  a  bugle  blares;  some- 
where rearward  a  bell  jangles.  On  the  deck 
overhead  is  a  scurry  of  feet.  In  the  mysterious 
bowels  of  the  ship  a  mighty  mechanism  opens 
its  metal  mouth  and  speaks  out  briskly.  Later 
it  will  talk  on  steadily,  with  a  measured  and  a 
regular  voice;  but  now  it  is  heard  frequently, 
yet  intermittently,  like  the  click  of  a  blind 
man's  cane.  Beneath  your  feet  the  ship,  which 
has  seemed  until  this  moment  as  solid  as  a 
rock,  stirs  the  least  little  bit,  as  though  it  had 
waked  up.  And  now  a  shiver  runs  all  through 
it  and  you  are  reminded  of  that  passage  from 
Pygmalion  and  Galatea  where  Pygmalion  says 
with  such  feeling: 

She  starts;  she  moves;  she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel. 

You  are  under  way.  You  are  finally  com- 
mitted to  the  great  adventure.  The  necessary 
good-bys  have  already  been  said.  Those  who 
in  the  goodness  of  their  hearts  came  to  see  you 
off  have  departed  for  shore,  leaving  sundry 
suitable  and  unsuitable  gifts  behind.  You  have 
examined  your  stateroom,  with  its  hot  and 
cold  decorations,  its  running  stewardess,  its  all- 
night  throb  service,  and  its  windows  overlook- 
ing the  Hudson — a  stateroom  that  seemed  so 
large  and  commodious  until  you  put  one  small 
submissive  steamer  trunk  and  two  scared 
valises  in  it.  You  are  tired,  and  yon  white  bed, 
[21] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


with  the  high  mudguards  on  it,  looks  mighty 
good  to  you ;  but  you  feel  that  you  must  go  on 
deck  to  wave  a  fond  farewell  to  the  land  you 
love  and  the  friends  you  are  leaving  behind. 

You  fight  your  way  to  the  open  through  com- 
panionways  full  of  frenzied  persons  who  are 
apparently  trying  to  travel  in  every  direction  at 
once.  On  the  deck  the  illusion  persists  that  it 
is  the  dock  that  is  moving  and  the  ship  that  is 
standing  still.  All  about  you  your  fellow  passen- 
gers crowd  the  rails,  waving  and  shouting  mes- 
sages to  the  people  on  the  dock;  the  people  on 
the  dock  wave  back  and  shout  answers.  About 
every  other  person  is  begging  somebody  to  tell 
auntie  to  be  sure  to  write.  You  gather  that 
auntie  will  be  expected  to  write  weekly,  if  not 
oftener. 

As  the  slice  of  dark  water  between  boat  and 
dock  widens,  those  who  are  left  behind  begin 
running  toward  the  pierhead  in  such  numbers 
that  each  wide,  bright-lit  door-opening  in  turn 
suggests  a  flittering  section  of  a  moving-picture 
film.  The  only  perfectly  calm  person  in  sight 
is  a  gorgeous,  gold-laced  creature  standing  on 
the  outermost  gunwale  of  the  dock,  wearing  the 
kind  of  uniform  that  a  rear  admiral  of  the  Swiss 
navy  would  wear — if  the  Swiss  had  any  navy — 
and  holding  a  speaking  trumpet  in  his  hand. 
This  person  is  not  excited,  for  he  sends  thirty- 
odd-thousand-ton  ships  off  to  Europe  at  frequent 
intervals,  and  so  he  is  impressively  and  im- 
portantly blase  about  it;  but  everybody  else  is 
[22] 


I  TRIED  TO  REMEMBER  ALL  THE  CONFLICTING  ADVICE 
THAT  HAD   BEEN  OFFERED   TO  ME 


WE  ARE  GOING  AWAY  FROM  HERE 

excited.  You  find  yourself  rather  that  way. 
You  wave  at  persons  you  know  and  then  at 
persons  you  do  not  know. 

You  continue  to  wave  until  the  man  alongside 
you,  who  has  spent  years  of  his  life  learning  to 
imitate  a  siren  whistle  with  his  face,  suddenly 
twines  his  hands  about  his  mouth  and  lets  go  a 
terrific  blast  right  in  your  ear.  Something 
seems  to  warn  you  that  you  are  not  going  to 
care  for  this  man. 

The  pier,  ceasing  to  be  a  long,  outstretched 
finger,  seems  to  fold  back  into  itself,  knuckle- 
fashion,  and  presently  is  but  a  part  of  the  oddly 
foreshortened  shoreline,  distinguishable  only  by 
the  black  dot  of  watchers  clustered  under  a  bat- 
tery of  lights,  like  a  swarm  of  hiving  bees.  Out 
in  midstream  the  tugs,  which  have  been  con- 
voying the  ship,  let  go  of  her  and  scuttle  off,  one 
in  this  direction  and  one  in  that,  like  a  brace  of 
teal  ducks  getting  out  of  a  walrus'  way. 

Almost  imperceptibly  her  nose  straightens 
down  the  river  and  soon  on  the  starboard  quar- 
ter— how  quickly  one  picks  up  these  nautical 
terms ! — looming  through  the  harbor  mists,  you 
behold  the  statue  of  Miss  Liberty,  in  her  popular 
specialty  of  enlightening  the  world.  So  you  go 
below  and  turn  in.  Anyway,  that  is  what  I  did; 
for  certain  of  the  larger  ships  of  the  Cunard  line 
sail  at  midnight  or  even  later,  and  this  was  such 
a  ship. 

For  some  hours  I  lay  awake,  while  above  me 
and  below  me  and  all  about  me  the  boat  settled 
[251 


EUROPE    REVISED 


down  to  her  ordained  ship's  job,  and  began 
drawing  the  long,  soothing  snores  that  for  five 
days  and  nights  she  was  to  continue  drawing 
without  cessation.  There  were  so  many  things 
to  think  over.  I  tried  to  remember  all  the 
authoritative  and  conflicting  advice  that  had 
been  offered  to  me  by  traveled  friends  and  well- 
wishers. 

Let's  see,  now:  On  shipboard  I  was  to  wear 
only  light  clothes,  because  nobody  ever  caught 
cold  at  sea.  I  was  to  wear  the  heaviest  clothes 
I  had,  because  the  landlubber  always  caught 
cold  at  sea.  I  was  to  tip  only  those  who  served 
me.  I  was  to  tip  all  hands  in  moderation, 
whether  they  served  me  or  not.  If  I  felt  squeam- 
ish I  was  to  do  the  following  things :  Eat  some- 
thing. Quit  eating.  Drink  something.  Quit 
drinking.  Stay  on  deck.  Go  below  and  lie 
perfectly  flat.  Seek  company.  Avoid  same. 
Give  it  up.  Keep  it  down. 

There  was  but  one  point  on  which  all  of  them 
were  agreed.  On  no  account  should  I  miss 
Naples;  I  must  see  Naples  if  I  did  not  see  an- 
other solitary  thing  in  Europe.  Well,  I  did 
both — I  saw  Naples ;  and  now  I  should  not  miss 
Naples  if  I  never  saw  it  again,  and  I  do  not  think 
I  shall.  As  regards  the  other  suggestions  these 
friends  of  mine  gave  me,  I  learned  in  time  that 
all  of  them  were  right  and  all  of  them  were 
wrong. 

For  example,  there  was  the  matter  of  a  correct 
traveling  costume.  Between  seasons  on  the  At- 
[26] 


WE  ARE  GOING  AWAY  FROM  HERE 

lantic  one  wears  what  best  pleases  one.  One 
sees  at  the  same  time  women  in  furs  and  summer 
boys  in  white  ducks.  Tweed-enshrouded  Eng- 
lishmen and  linen-clad  American  girls  promen- 
ade together,  giving  to  the  decks  that  pleasing 
air  of  variety  and  individuality  of  apparel  only 
to  be  found  in  southern  California  during  the 
winter,  and  in  those  orthodox  pictures  in  the 
book  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  where  Robinson  is 
depicted  as  completely  wrapped  up  in  goatskins, 
while  Man  Friday  is  pirouetting  round  as  nude 
as  a  raw  oyster  and  both  of  them  are  perfectly 
comfortable.  I  used  to  wonder  how  Robinson 
and  Friday  did  it.  Since  taking  an  ocean  trip 
I  understand  perfectly.  I  could  do  it  myself 
now. 

There  certainly  were  a  lot  of  things  to  think 
over.  I  do  not  recall  now  exactly  the  moment 
when  I  ceased  thinking  them  over.  A  blank 
that  was  measurable  by  hours  ensued.  I  woke 
from  a  dream  about  a  scrambled  egg,  in  which 
I  was  the  egg,  to  find  that  morning  had  arrived 
and  the  ship  was  behaving  naughtily. 

Here  was  a  ship  almost  as  long  as  Main  Street 
is  back  home,  and  six  stories  high,  with  an  Eng- 
lish basement;  with  restaurants  and  elevators 
and  retail  stores  in  her;  and  she  was  as  broad 
as  a  courthouse ;  and  while  lying  at  the  dock  she 
had  appeared  to  be  about  the  most  solid  and 
dependable  thing  in  creation — and  yet  in  just 
a  few  hours'  time  she  had  altered  her  whole 
nature,  and  was  rolling  and  sliding  and  charging 
[271 


EUROPE    REVISED 


and  snorting  like  a  warhorse.  It  was  astonishing 
in  the  extreme,  and  you  would  not  have  ex- 
pected it  of  her. 

Even  as  I  focused  my  mind  on  this  phenom- 
enon the  doorway  was  stealthily  entered  by  a 
small  man  in  a  uniform  that  made  him  look 
something  like  an  Eton  schoolboy  and  some- 
thing like  a  waiter  in  a  dairy  lunch.  I  was  about 
to  have  the  first  illuminating  experience  with 
an  English  manservant.  This  was  my  bedroom 
steward,  by  name  Lubly — William  Lubly.  My 
hat  is  off  to  William  Lubly — to  him  and  to  all 
his  kind.  He  was  always  on  duty;  he  never 
seemed  to  sleep ;  he  was  always  in  a  good  humor, 
and  he  always  thought  of  the  very  thing  you 
wanted  just  a  moment  or  two  before  you  thought 
of  it  yourself,  and  came  a-running  and  fetched 
it  to  you.  Now  he  was  softly  stealing  in  to  close 
my  port.  As  he  screwed  the  round,  brass-faced 
window  fast  he  glanced  my  way  and  caught  my 
apprehensive  eye. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said,  and  said  it  in 
such  a  way  as  to  convey  a  subtle  compliment. 

"Is  it  getting  rough  outside?"  I  said — I  knew 
about  the  inside. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "the  sea  'as  got  up  a 
bit,  sir — thank  you,  sir." 

I  was  gratified — nay  more,  I  was  flattered. 
And  it  was  so  delicately  done  too.  I  really  did 
not  have  the  heart  to  tell  him  that  I  was  not 
solely  responsible — that  Iliad,  so  to  speak,  col- 
laborators; but  Lubly  stood  ready  always  to 
[28] 


WE    ARE    GOING    AWAY    FROM    HERE 

accord  me  a  proper  amount  of  recognition  for 
everything  that  happened  on  that  ship.  Only 
the  next  day,  I  think  it  was,  I  asked  him  where 
we  were.  This  occurred  on  deck.  He  had  just 
answered  a  lady  who  wanted  to  know  whether 
we  should  have  good  weather  on  the  day  we 
landed  at  Fishguard  and  whether  we  should  get 
in  on  time.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
told  her;  and  then  he  turned  to  me  with  the  air 
of  giving  credit  where  credit  is  due,  and  said: 

"Thank  you,  sir — we  are  just  off  the  Banks, 
thank  you." 

Lubly  ran  true  to  form.  The  British  serving 
classes  are  ever  like  that,  whether  met  with  at 
sea  or  on  their  native  soil.  They  are  a  great  and 
a  noble  institution.  Give  an  English  servant  a 
kind  word  and  he  thanks  you.  Give  him  a  harsh 
word  and  he  still  thanks  you.  Ask  a  question 
of  a  London  policeman — he  tells  you  fully  and 
then  he  thanks  you.  Go  into  an  English  shop 
and  buy  something — the  clerk  who  serves  you 
thanks  you  with  enthusiasm.  Go  in  and  fail  to 
buy  something — he  still  thanks  you,  but  with- 
out the  enthusiasm. 

One  kind  of  Englishman  says  Thank  you,  sir; 
and  one  kind — the  Cockney  who  has  been  edu- 
cated— says  Thenks;  but  the  majority  brief  it 
into  a  short  but  expressive  expletive  and  merely 
say:  Kew.  Kew  is  the  commonest  word  in  the 
British  Isles.  Stroidinary  runs  it  a  close  second, 
but  Kew  comes  first.*  You  hear  it  everywhere. 
Hence  Kew  Gardens;  they  are  named  for  it. 
[291 


EUROPE    REVISED 


All  the  types  that  travel  on  a  big  English-owned 
ship  were  on  ours.  I  take  it  that  there  is  a  re- 
quirement in  the  maritime  regulations  to  the 
effect  that  the  set  must  be  complete  before  a 
ship  may  put  to  sea.  To  begin  with,  there  was 
a  member  of  a  British  legation  from  somewhere 
going  home  on  leave,  for  a  holiday,  or  a  funeral. 
At  least  I  heard  it  was  a  holiday,  but  I  should 
have  said  he  was  going  home  for  the  other  oc- 
casion. He  wore  an  Honorable  attached  to  the 
front  of  his  name  and  carried  several  extra 
initials  behind  in  the  rumble;  and  he  was  filled 
up  with  that  true  British  reserve  which  a  cer- 
tain sort  of  Britisher  always  develops  while 
traveling  in  foreign  lands.  He  was  upward  of 
seven  feet  tall,  as  the  crow  flies,  and  very  thin 
and  rigid. 

Viewing  him,  you  got  the  impression  that  his 
framework  all  ran  straight  up  and  down,  like 
the  wires  in  a  bird  cage,  with  barely  enough 
perches  extending  across  from  side  to  side  to 
keep  him  from  caving  in  and  crushing  the  cana- 
ries to  death.  On  second  thought  I  judge  I  had 
better  make  this  comparison  in  the  singular 
number — there  would  not  have  been  room  in 
him  for  more  than  one  canary. 

Every  morning  for  an  hour,  and  again  every 
afternoon  for  an  hour,  he  marched  solemnly  round 
and  round  the  promenade  deck,  always  alone 
and  always  with  his  mournful  gaze  fixed  on  the 
far  horizon.  As  I  said  before,  however,  he  stood 
very  high  in  the  air,  and  it  may  have  been  he 
[301 


WE    A^RE    GOING    AWAY    FROM    HERE 

feared,  if  he  ever  did  look  down  at  his  feet,  he 
should  turn  dizzy  and  be  seized  with  an  uncon- 
trollable desire  to  leap  off  and  end  all;  so  I  am 
not  blaming  him  for  that. 

He  would  walk  his  hour  out  to  the  sixtieth 
second  of  the  sixtieth  minute  and  then  he  would 
sit  in  his  steamer  chair,  as  silent  as  a  glacier  and 
as  inaccessible  as  one.  If  it  were  afternoon  he 
would  have  his  tea  at  five  o'clock  and  then,  with 
his  soul  still  full  of  cracked  ice,  he  would  go  below 
and  dress  for  dinner;  but  he  never  spoke  to 
anyone.  His  steamer  chair  was  right-hand  chair 
to  mine  and  often  we  practically  touched  elbows ; 
but  he  did  not  see  me  once. 

I  had  a  terrible  thought.  Suppose  now,  I 
said  to  myself — just  suppose  that  this  ship  were 
to  sink  and  only  we  two  were  saved ;  and  suppose 
we  were  cast  away  on  a  desert  island  and  spent 
years  and  years  there,  never  knowing  each 
other's  name  and  never  mingling  together  so- 
cially until  the  rescue  ship  came  along — and  not 
even  then  unless  there  was  some  mutual  ac- 
quaintance aboard  her  to  introduce  us  properly! 
It  was  indeed  a  frightful  thought!  It  made 
me  shudder. 

Among  our  company  was  a  younger  son  going 
home  after  a  tour  of  the  Colonies — Canada  and 
Australia,  and  all  that  sort  of  bally  rot.  I  be- 
lieve there  is  always  at  least  one  younger  son 
on  every  well-conducted  English  boat;  the  fam- 
ily keeps  him  on  a  remittance  and  seems  to  feel 
easier  in  its  mind  when  he  is  traveling.  The 
[31] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


British  statesman  who  said  the  sun  never  sets 
on  British  possessions  spoke  the  truth,  but  the 
reporters  in  committing  his  memorable  utterance 
to  paper  spelt  the  keyword  wrong — undoubtedly 
he  meant  the  other  kind — the  younger  kind. 

This  particular  example  of  the  species  was  in 
every  way  up  to  grade  and  sample.  A  happy 
combination  of  open  air,  open  pores  and  open 
casegoods  gave  to  his  face  the  exact  color  of  a 
slice  of  rare  roast  beef;  it  also  had  the  expression 
of  one.  With  a  dab  of  English  mustard  in  the 
lobe  of  one  ear  and  a  savory  bit  of  watercress 
stuck  in  his  hair  for  a  garnish,  he  could  have 
passed  anywhere  for  a  slice  of  cold  roast  beef. 

He  was  reasonably  exclusive  too.  Not  until 
the  day  we  landed  did  he  and  the  Honorable 
member  of  the  legation  learn — quite  by  chance 
— that  they  were  third  cousins — or  something 
of  that  sort — to  one  another.  And  so,  after  the 
relationship  had  been  thoroughly  established 
through  the  kindly  offices  of  a  third  party,  they 
fraternized  to  the  extent  of  riding  up  to  London 
on  the  same  boat-train,  merely  using  different 
compartments  of  different  carriages.  The  Eng- 
lish aristocrat  is  a  tolerably  social  animal  when 
traveling;  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  does  not 
carry  his  sociability  to  an  excess.  He  shows 
restraint. 

Also,  we  had  with  us  the  elderly  gentleman 
of  impaired  disposition,  who  had  crossed  thirty 
times  before  and  was  now  completing  his  thirty- 
first  trip,  and  getting  madder  and  madder  about 
[32] 


BUT  THE  DECK  WAS  UNPLEASANTLY  CONGESTED 
WITH  GREAT  BURLY  BRUTES 


WE    ARE    GOING    AWAY    FROM    HERE 

it  every  minute.  I  saw  him  only  with  his  clothes 
on;  but  I  should  say,  speaking  offhand,  that  he 
had  at  least  fourteen  rattles  and  a  button.  His 
poison  sacs  hung  'way  down.  Others  may  have 
taken  them  for  dewlaps,  but  I  knew  better;  they 
were  poison  sacs. 

It  was  quite  apparent  that  he  abhorred  the 
very  idea  of  having  to  cross  to  Europe  on  the 
same  ocean  with  the  rest  of  us,  let  alone  on  the 
same  ship.  And  for  persons  who  were  taking 
their  first  trip  abroad  his  contempt  was  abso- 
lutely unutterable;  he  choked  at  the  bare  men- 
tion of  such  a  criminal's  name  and  offense. 
You  would  hear  him  communing  with  himself 
and  a  Scotch  and  soda. 

"Bah!"  he  would  say  bitterly,  addressing  the 
soda-bottle.  "These  idiots  who've  never  been 
anywhere  talking  about  this  being  rough  weather ! 
Rough  weather,  mind  you!  Bah!  People 
shouldn't  be  allowed  to  go  to  sea  until  they 
know  something  about  it.  Bah!" 

By  the  fourth  day  out  his  gums  were  as  blue 
as  indigo,  and  he  was  so  swelled  up  with  his 
own  venom  he  looked  dropsical.  I  judged  his 
bite  would  have  caused  death  in  from  twelve 
to  fourteen  minutes,  preceded  by  coma  and 
convulsive  rigors.  We  called  him  old  Colonel 
Gila  Monster  or  Judge  Stinging  Lizard,  for  short. 

There  was  the  spry  and  conversational  gentle- 
man who  looked  like  an  Englishman,  but  was  of 
the  type  commonly  denominated  in  our  own  land 
as  breezy.  So  he  could  not  have  been  an  Eng- 
[35] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


lishman.  Once  in  a  while  there  comes  along  an 
Englishman  who  is  windy,  and  frequently  you 
meet  one  who  is  drafty;  but  there  was  never  a 
breezy  Englishman  yet. 

With  that  interest  in  other  people's  business 
which  the  close  communion  of  a  ship  so  promptly 
breeds  in  most  of  us,  we  fell  to  wondering  who 
and  what  he  might  be;  but  the  minute  the  sus- 
pect came  into  the  salon  for  dinner  the  first 
night  out  I  read  his  secret  at  a  glance.  He 
belonged  to  a  refined  song-and-dance  team  doing 
sketches  in  vaudeville.  He  could  not  have  been 
anything  else — he  had  jet  buttons  on  his  evening 
clothes. 

There  was  the  young  woman — she  had  elocu- 
tionary talents,  it  turned  out  afterward,  and 
had  graduated  with  honors  from  a  school  of 
expression — who  assisted  in  getting  up  the  ship's 
concert  and  then  took  part  in  it,  both  of  those 
acts  being  mistakes  on  her  part,  as  it  proved. 

And  there  was  the  official  he-beauty  of  the 
ship.  He  was  without  a  wrinkle  in  his  clothes 
— or  his  mind  either;  and  he  managed  to  maneu- 
ver so  that  when  he  sat  in  the  smoking  room  he 
always  faced  a  mirror.  That  was  company 
enough  for  him.  He  never  grew  lonely  or  bored 
then.  Only  one  night  he  discovered  something 
wrong  about  one  of  his  eyebrows.  He  gave  a 
pained  start;  and  then,  oblivious  of  those  of  us 
who  hovered  about  enjoying  the  spectacle,  he 
spent  a  long  time  working  with  the  blemish. 
The  eyebrow  was  stubborn,  though,  and  he  just 
[36] 


WE  ARE  GOING  AWAY  FROM  HERE 

couldn't  make  it  behave;  so  he  grew  petulant 
and  fretful,  and  finally  went  away  to  bed  in  a 
huff.  Had  it  not  been  for  fear  of  stopping  his 
watch,  I  am  sure  he  would  have  slapped  him- 
self on  the  wrist. 

This  fair  youth  was  one  of  the  delights  of  the 
voyage.  One  felt  that  if  he  had  merely  a  pair 
of  tweezers  and  a  mustache  comb  and  a  hand 
glass  he  would  never,  never  be  at  a  loss  for  a 
solution  of  the  problem  that  worries  so  many 
writers  for  the  farm  journals — a  way  to  spend 
the  long  winter  evenings  pleasantly. 


[37] 


CHAPTER  II 

MY  BONNY  LIES  OVER  THE  OCEAN— 
AND  LIES  AND  LIES  AND  LIES 


OF  course,  we  had  a  bridal  couple  and 
a  troupe  of  professional  deep-sea  fish- 
ermen aboard.  We  just  naturally 
had  to  have  them.  Without  them,  I 
doubt  whether  the  ship  could  have  sailed.  The 
bridal  couple  were  from  somewhere  in  the  cen- 
tral part  of  Ohio  and  they  were  taking  their 
honeymoon  tour;  but,  if  I  were  a  bridal  couple 
from  the  central  part  of  Ohio  and  had  never 
been  to  sea  before,  as  was  the  case  in  this  par- 
ticular instance,  I  should  take  my  honeymoon 
ashore  and  keep  it  there.  I  most  certainly 
should!  This  couple  of  ours  came  aboard  bill- 
ing and  cooing  to  beat  the  lovebirds.  They 
made  it  plain  to  all  that  they  had  just  been 
married  and  were  proud  of  it.  Their  baggage 
was  brand-new,  and  the  groom's  shoes  were 
shiny  with  that  pristine  shininess  which,  once 
destroyed,  can  never  be  restored;  and  the  bride 
wore  her  going-and-giving-away  outfit. 
[381 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

Just  prior  to  sailing  and  on  the  morning  after 
they  were  all  over  the  ship.  Everywhere  you 
went  you  seemed  to  meet  them  and  they  were 
always  wrestling.  You  entered  a  quiet  side 
passage — there  they  were,  exchanging  a  kiss — 
one  of  the  long-drawn,  deep-siphoned,  sirupy 
kind.  You  stepped  into  the  writing  room 
thinking  to  find  it  deserted,  and  at  sight  of  you 
they  broke  grips  and  sprang  apart,  eyeing  you 
like  a  pair  of  startled  fawns  surprised  by  the 
cruel  huntsman  in  a  forest  glade.  At  all  other 
times,  though,  they  had  eyes  but  for  each  other. 

A  day  came,  however — and  it  was  the  second 
day  out — when  they  were  among  the  missing. 
For  two  days  and  two  nights,  while  the  good 
ship  floundered  on  the  tempestuous  bosom  of 
the  overwrought  ocean,  they  were  gone  from 
human  ken.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day, 
the  sea  being  calmer  now,  but  still  sufficiently 
rough  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting,  a  few  hardy 
and  convalescent  souls  sat  in  a  shawl-wrapped 
row  on  the  lee  side  of  the  ship. 

There  came  two  stewards,  bearing  with  them 
pillows  and  blankets  and  rugs.  These  articles 
were  disposed  to  advantage  in  two  steamer 
chairs.  Then  the  stewards  hurried  away;  but 
presently  they  reappeared,  dragging  the  limp 
and  dangling  forms  of  the  bridal  couple  from 
the  central  part  of  Ohio.  But  oh,  my  country- 
men, what  a  spectacle!  And  what  a  change 
from  what  had  been ! 

The  going-away  gown  was  wrinkled,  as  though 
[39] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


worn  for  a  period  of  time  by  one  suddenly  and 
sorely  stricken  in  the  midst  of  health.  The 
bride's  once  well-coifed  hair  hung  in  lank  dis- 
array about  a  face  that  was  the  color  of  prime 
old  sage  cheese — yellow,  with  a  fleck  of  green 
here  and  there — and  in  her  wan  and  rolling  eye 
was  the  hunted  look  of  one  who  hears  something 
unpleasant  stirring  a  long  way  off  and  fears  it 
is  coming  this  way. 

Side  by  side  the  stewards  stretched  them 
prone  on  their  chairs  and  tucked  them  in.  Her 
face  was  turned  from  him.  For  some  time  both 
of  them  lay  there  without  visible  signs  of  life — 
just  two  muffled,  misery-stricken  heaps.  Then, 
slowly  and  languidly,  the  youth  stretched  forth 
an  arm  from  his  wrappings  and  fingered  the 
swaddling  folds  that  enveloped  the  form  of  his 
beloved. 

It  may  have  been  he  thought  it  was  about 
time  to  begin  picking  the  coverlid,  or  it  may 
have  been  the  promptings  of  reawakened  ro- 
mance, once  more  feebly  astir  within  his  bosom. 
At  any  rate,  gently  and  softly,  his  hand  fell  on 
the  rug  about  where  her  shoulder  ought  to  be. 
She  still  had  life  enough  left  in  her  to  shake  it 
off — and  she  did.  Hurt,  he  waited  a  moment, 
then  caressed  her  again.  "Stop  that ! "  she  cried 
in  a  low  but  venomous  tone.  "Don't  you  dare 
touch  me!" 

So  he  touched  her  no  more,  but  only  lay 
there  mute  and  motionless;  and  from  his  look 
one  might  plumb  the  sorrows  of  his  soul  and 
[40] 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

know  how  shocked  he  was,  and  how  grieved  and 
heartstricken !  Love's  young  dream  was  o'er! 
He  had  thought  she  loved  him,  but  now  he 
knew  better.  Their  marriage  had  been  a  terrible 
mistake  and  he  would  give  her  back  her  freedom; 
he  would  give  it  back  to  her  as  soon  as  he  was  able 
to  sit  up.  Thus  one  interpreted  his  expression. 

On  the  day  wre  landed,  however,  they  were 
seen  again.  We  were  nosing  northward  through 
a  dimpled  duckpond  of  a  sea,  with  the  Welsh 
coast  on  one  side  and  Ireland  just  over  the  way. 
People  who  had  not  been  seen  during  the  voyage 
came  up  to  breathe,  wearing  the  air  of  persons 
who  had  just  returned  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  and  were  mighty  glad  to  be  back;  and 
with  those  others  came  our  bridal  couple. 

I  inadvertently  stumbled  on  them  in  an  ob- 
scure companionway.  Their  cheeks  again  wore 
the  bloom  of  youth  and  health,  and  they  were 
in  a  tight  clinch;  it  was  indeed  a  pretty  sight. 
Love  had  returned  on  roseate  pinions  and  the 
honeymoon  had  been  resumed  at  the  point 
where  postponed  on  account  of  bad  weather. 

They  had  not  been  seasick,  though.  I  heard 
them  say  so.  They  had  been  indisposed,  possi- 
bly from  something  they  had  eaten;  but  they 
had  not  been  seasick.  Well,  I  had  my  own 
periods  of  indisposition  going  over;  and  if  it 
had  been  seasickness  I  should  not  hesitate  a 
moment  about  coming  right  out  and  saying  so. 
In  these  matters  I  believe  in  being  absolutely 
frank  and  aboveboard.  For  the  life  of  me  I  can- 
[411 


EUROPE    REVISED 


not  understand  why  people  will  dissemble  and  lie 
about  this  thing  of  being  seasick.  To  me  their 
attitude  is  a  source  of  constant  wonderment. 

On  land  the  average  person  is  reasonably 
proud  of  having  been  sick — after  he  begins  to 
get  better.  It  gives  him  something  to  talk 
about.  The  pale  and  interesting  invalid  invari- 
ably commands  respect  ashore.  In  my  own 
list  of  acquaintances  I  number  several  persons 
— mainly  widowed  ladies  with  satisfactory  in- 
comes— who  never  feel  well  unless  they  are  ill. 
In  the  old  days  they  would  have  had  resort  to 
patent  medicines  and  the  family  lot  at  Laurel 
Grove  Cemetery;  but  now  they  go  in  for  rest 
cures  and  sea  voyages,  and  the  baths  at  Carlsbad 
and  specialists,  these  same  being  main  contrib- 
uting causes  to  the  present  high  cost  of  living, 
and  also  helping  to  explain  what  becomes  of 
some  of  those  large  life-insurance  policies  you 
read  about.  Possibly  you  know  the  type  I  am 
describing — the  lady  who,  when  planning  where 
she  will  spend  the  summer,  sends  for  catalogues 
from  all  the  leading  sanatoriums.  We  had  one 
such  person  with  us. 

She  had  been  surgically  remodeled  so  many 
times  that  she  dated  everything  from  her  last 
operation.  At  least  six  times  in  her  life  she  had 
been  down  with  something  that  was  absolutely 
incurable,  and  she  was  now  going  to  Homburg 
to  have  one  of  the  newest  and  most  fatal  Ger- 
man diseases  in  its  native  haunts,  where  it  would 
be  at  its  best.  She  herself  said  that  she  was  but 
[42] 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

a  mere  shell;  and  for  the  first  few  meals  she  ate 
like  one — like  a  large,  empty  shell  with  plenty 
of  curves  inside  it. 

However,  when,  after  a  subsequent  period  of 
seclusion,  she  emerged  from  her  stateroom  wear- 
ing the  same  disheveled  look  that  Jonah  must 
have  worn  when  he  and  the  whale  parted  com- 
pany, do  you  think  she  would  confess  she  had 
been  seasick?  Not  by  any  means !  She  said  she 
had  had  a  raging  headache.  But  she  could  not 
fool  me.  She  had  the  stateroom  next  to  mine 
and  I  had  heard  what  I  had  heard.  She  was 
from  near  Boston  and  she  had  the  near-Boston 
accent;  and  she  was  the  only  person  I  ever  met 
who  was  seasick  with  the  broad  A. 

Personally  I  abhor  those  evasions,  which  de- 
ceive no  one.  If  I  had  been  seasick  I  should  not 
deny  it  here  or  elsewhere.  For  a  time  I  thought 
I  was  seasick.  I  know  now  I  was  wrong — but  I 
thought  so.  There  was  something  about  the 
sardels  served  at  lunch— their  look  or  their  smell 
or  something — which  seemed  to  make  them  dis- 
tasteful to  me;  and  I  excused  myself  from  the 
company  at  the  table  and  went  up  and  out  into 
the  open  air.  But  the  deck  was  unpleasantly 
congested  with  great  burly  brutes — beefy,  car- 
nivorous, overfed  creatures,  gorged  with  victuals 
and  smoking  disgustingly  strong  black  cigars, 
and  grinning  in  an  annoying  and  meaning  sort 
of  way  every  time  they  passed  a  body  who 
preferred  to  lie  quiet. 

The  rail  was  also  moving  up  and  down  in  a 
[43] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


manner  that  was  annoying  and  wearisome  for 
the  eye  to  watch — first  tipping  up  and  up  and  up 
until  half  the  sky  was  hidden,  then  dipping  down 
and  down  and  down  until  the  gray  and  heaving 
sea  seemed  ready  to  leap  over  the  side  and 
engulf  us.  So  I  decided  to  go  below  and  jot 
down  a  few  notes.  On  arriving  at  my  quarters 
I  changed  my  mind  again.  I  decided  to  let  the 
notes  wait  a  while  and  turn  in. 

It  is  my  usual  custom  when  turning  in  to 
remove  the  left  shoe  as  well  as  the  right  one 
and  to  put  on  my  pajamas;  but  the  pajamas 
were  hanging  on  a  hook  away  over  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  stateroom,  which  had  suddenly 
grown  large  and  wide  and  full  of  great  distances; 
and  besides,  I  thought  it  was  just  as  well  to 
have  the  left  shoe  where  I  could  put  my  hand 
on  it  when  I  needed  it  again.  So  I  retired 
practically  just  as  I  was  and  endeavored,  as  per 
the  admonitions  of  certain  friends,  to  lie  perfectly 
flat.  No  doubt  this  thing  of  lying  flat  is  all 
very  well  for  some  people — but  suppose  a  fellow 
has  not  that  kind  of  a  figure? 

Nevertheless,  I  tried.  I  lay  as  flat  as  I  could, 
but  the  indisposition  persisted;  in  fact,  it  in- 
creased materially.  The  manner  in  which  my 
pajamas,  limp  and  pendent  from  that  hook, 
swayed  and  swung  back  and  forth  became  ex- 
tremely distasteful  to  me;  and  if  by  mental 
treatment  I  could  have  removed  them  from 
there  I  should  assuredly  have  done  so.  But 
that  was  impossible. 

[441 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

Along  toward  evening  I  began  to  think  of 
food.  I  thought  of  it  not  from  its  gastronomic 
aspect,  but  rather  in  the  capacity  of  ballast. 
I  did  not  so  much  desire  the  taste  of  it  as  the 
feel  of  it.  So  I  summoned  Lubly — he,  at  least, 
did  not  smile  at  me  in  that  patronizing,  signifi- 
cant way — and  ordered  a  dinner  that  included 
nearly  everything  on  the  dinner  card  except 
Lubly 's  thumb.  The  dinner  was  brought  to  me 
in  relays  and  I  ate  it — ate  it  all!  This  step  I 
know  now  was  ill-advised.  It  is  true  that  for  a 
short  time  I  felt  as  I  imagine  a  python  in  a  zoo 
feels  when  he  is  full  of  guinea-pigs — sort  of 
gorged,  you  know,  and  sluggish,  and  only  toler- 
ably uncomfortable. 

Then  ensued  the  frightful  denouement.  It 
ensued  almost  without  warning.  At  the  time 
I  felt  absolutely  positive  that  I  was  seasick.  I 
would  have  sworn  to  it.  If  somebody  had  put 
a  Bible  on  my  chest  and  held  it  there  I  would 
cheerfully  have  laid  my  right  hand  on  it  and 
taken  a  solemn  oath  that  I  was  seasick.  Indeed, 
I  believed  I  was  so  seasick  that  I  feared — 
hoped,  rather — I  might  never  recover  from  it. 
All  I  desired  at  the  moment  was  to  get  it  over 
with  as  quickly  and  as  neatly  as  possible. 

As  in  the  case  of  drowning  persons,  there 
passed  in  review  before  my  eyes  several  of  the 
more  recent  events  of  my  past  life — meals 
mostly.  I  shall,  however,  pass  hastily  over 
these  distressing  details,  merely  stating  in  paren- 
theses, so  to  speak,  that  I  did  not  remember 
[45] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


those  string-beans  at  all.  I  was  positive  then, 
and  am  yet,  that  I  had  not  eaten  string-beans 
for  nearly  a  week.  But  enough  of  this! 

I  was  sure  I  was  seasick;  and  I  am  convinced 
any  inexperienced  bystander,  had  there  been 
one  there,  would  have  been  misled  by  my 
demeanor  into  regarding  me  as  a  seasick  person 
— but  it  was  a  wrong  diagnosis.  The  steward 
told  me  so  himself  when  he  called  the  next 
morning.  He  came  and  found  me  stretched 
prone  on  the  bed  of  affliction;  and  he  asked  me 
how  I  felt,  to  which  I  replied  with  a  low  and 
hollow  groan — tolerably  low  and  exceedingly 
hollow.  It  could  not  have  been  any  hollower 
if  I  had  been  a  megaphone. 

So  he  looked  me  over  and  told  me  that  I  had 
climate  fever.  We  were  passing  through  the 
Gulf  Stream,  where  the  water  was  warmer  than 
elsewhere  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  I  had  a 
touch  of  climate  fever.  It  was  a  very  common 
complaint  in  that  latitude;  many  persons  suffered 
from  it.  The  symptoms  were  akin  to  seasick- 
ness, it  was  true;  yet  the  two  maladies  were  in 
no  way  to  be  confused.  As  soon  as  we  passed 
out  of  the  Gulf  Stream  he  felt  sure  I  would  be 
perfectly  well.  Meantime  he  would  recommend 
that  I  get  Lubly  to  take  the  rest  of  my  things 
off  and  then  remain  perfectly  quiet.  He  was 
right  about  it  too. 

Regardless  of  what  one  may  think  oneself, 
one  is  bound  to  accept  the  statement  of  an 
authority  on  this  subject;  and  if  a  steward  on  a 
[461 


BUT  OH,  MY  COUNTRYMEN,  WHAT  A  CHANGE  FROM  WHAT  HAD  BEEN! 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

big  liner,  who  has  traveled  back  and  forth 
across  the  ocean  for  years,  is  not  an  authority 
on  climate  fever,  who  is?  I  looked  at  it  in  that 
light.  And  sure  enough,  when  we  had  passed 
out  of  the  Gulf  Stream  and  the  sea  had  smoothed 
itself  out,  I  made  a  speedy  and  satisfactory  re- 
covery; but  if  it  had  been  seasickness  I 
should  have  confessed  it  in  a  minute.  I  have 
no  patience  with  those  who  quibble  and  equiv- 
ocate in  regard  to  their  having  been  seasick. 

I  had  one  relapse — a  short  one,  but  painful. 
In  an  incautious  moment,  when  I  wist  not  wot 
I  wotted,  I  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  chief 
engineer  to  go  below.  We  went  below — miles 
and  miles,  I  think — to  where,  standing  on  metal 
runways  that  were  hot  to  the  foot,  overalled 
Scots  ministered  to  the  heart  and  the  lungs  and 
the  bowels  of  that  ship.  Electricity  spat  crack- 
lingly  in  our  faces,  and  at  our  sides  steel  shafts 
as  big  as  the  pillars  of  a  temple  spun  in  coatings 
of  spumy  grease;  and  through  the  double  skin 
of  her  we  could  hear,  over  our  heads,  a  mighty 
Niagaralike  churning  as  the  slew-footed  screws 
kicked  us  forward  twenty-odd  knots  an  hour. 
Someone  raised  the  cover  of  a  vat,  and  peering 
down  into  the  opening  we  saw  a  small,  vicious 
engine  hard  at  work,  entirely  enveloped  in 
twisty,  coily,  stewy  depths  of  black  oil,  like  a 
devil-fish  writhing  in  sea-ooze  and  cuttle-juice. 

So  then  we  descended  another  mile  or  two 
to  an  inferno,  full  of  naked,  sooty  devils  forever 
feeding  sulphurous  pitfires  in  the  nethermost 
[491 


EUROPE    REVISED 


parlors  of  the  damned;  but  they  said  this  was 
the  stokehole;  and  I  was  in  no  condition  to 
argue  with  them,  for  I  had  suddenly  begun  to 
realize  that  I  was  far  from  being  a  well  person. 
As  one  peering  through  a  glass  darkly,  I  saw 
one  of  the  attendant  demons  sluice  his  blistered 
bare  breast  with  cold  water,  so  that  the  sweat 
and  grime  ran  from  him  in  streams  like  ink; 
and  peering  in  at  a  furnace  door  I  saw  a  great 
angry  sore  of  coals  all  scabbed  and  crusted  over. 
Then  another  demon,  wielding  a  nine-foot  bar 
daintily  as  a  surgeon  wields  a  scalpel,  reached  in 
and  stabbed  it  in  the  center,  so  that  the  fire 
burst  through  and  gushed  up  red  and  rich,  like 
blood  from  a  wound  newly  lanced. 

I  had  seen  enough  and  to  spare;  but  my 
guide  brought  me  back  by  way  of  the  steerage, 
in  order  that  I  might  know  how  the  other  half 
lives.  There  was  nothing  here,  either  of  smell 
or  sight,  to  upset  the  human  stomach — third 
class  is  better  fed  and  better  quartered  now  on 
those  big  ships  than  first  class  was  in  those 
good  old  early  days — but  I  had  held  in  as  long 
as  I  could  and  now  I  relapsed.  I  relapsed  in 
a  vigorous  manner — a  whole-souled,  boisterous 
manner.  People  halfway  up  the  deck  heard  me 
relapsing,  and  I  will  warrant  some  of  them 
were  fooled  too — they  thought  I  was  seasick. 

It  was  due  to  my  attack  of  climate  fever  that 

I  missed  the  most  exciting  thing  which  happened 

on  the  voyage.     I  refer  to  the  incident  of  the 

professional  gamblers  and  the  youth  from  Jersey 

[50] 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

City.  From  the  very  first  there  was  one  passen- 
ger who  had  been  picked  out  by  all  the  knowing 
passengers  as  a  professional  gambler;  for  he 
was  the  very  spit-and-image  of  a  professional 
gambler  as  we  have  learned  to  know  him  in 
story  books.  Did  he  not  dress  in  plain  black, 
without  any  jewelry?  He  certainly  did.  Did 
he  not  have  those  long,  slender,  flexible  fingers? 
Such  was,  indeed,  the  correct  description  of 
those  fingers.  Was  not  his  eye  a  keen  steely- 
blue  eye  that  seemed  to  have  the  power  of 
looking  right  through  you?  Steely -blue  was 
the  right  word,  all  right.  Well,  then,  what 
more  could  you  ask? 

Behind  his  back  sinister  yet  fascinating  rumors 
circulated.  He  was  the  brilliant  but  unscrupu- 
lous scion  of  a  haughty  house  in  England.  He 
had  taken  a  first  degree  at  Oxford,  over  there, 
and  the  third  one  at  police  headquarters,  over 
here.  Women  simply  could  not  resist  him. 
Let  him  make  up  his  mind  to  win  a  woman  and 
she  was  a  gone  gosling.  His  picture  was  to  be 
found  in  rogues'  galleries  and  ladies'  lockets. 
And  sh-h-h!  Listen!  Everybody  knew  he  was 
the  identical  crook  who,  disguised  in  woman's 
clothes,  escaped  in  the  last  lifeboat  that  left  the 
sinking  Titanic.  Who  said  so?  Why — er — 
everybody  said  so! 

It  came  as  a  grievous  disappointment  to  all 

when  we  found  out  the  truth,  which  was  that 

he  was  the  booking  agent  for  a  lyceum  bureau, 

going  abroad  to  sign  up  some  foreign  talent  for 

[51] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


next  season's  Chautauquas;  and  the  only  gam- 
bling he  had  ever  done  was  on  the  chance  of 
whether  the  Tyrolian  Yodelers  would  draw 
better  than  our  esteemed  secretary  of  state — or 
vice  versa. 

Meantime  the  real  professionals  had  establish- 
ed themselves  cozily  and  comfortably  aboard, 
had  rigged  the  trap  and  cheese-baited  it,  and 
were  waiting  for  the  coming  of  one  of  the  class 
that  is  born  so  numerously  in  this  country.  If 
you  should  be  traveling  this  year  on  one  of  the 
large  trans-Atlantic  ships,  and  there  should 
come  aboard  two  young  well-dressed  men  and 
shortly  afterward  a  middle-aged  well-dressed 
man  with  a  flat  nose,  who  was  apparently  a 
stranger  to  the  first  two;  and  if  on  the  second 
night  out  in  the  smoking  room,  while  the  pool 
on  the  next  day's  run  was  being  auctioned,  one 
of  the  younger  men,  whom  we  will  call  Mr.  Y, 
should  appear  to  be  slightly  under  the  influence 
of  malt,  vinous  or  spirituous  liquors — or  all  three 
of  them  at  once — and  should,  without  seeming 
provocation,  insist  on  picking  a  quarrel  with  the 
middle-aged  stranger,  whom  we  will  call  Mr. 
Z;  and  if  further  along  in  the  voyage  Mr.  Z 
should  introduce  himself  to  you  and  suggest  a 
little  game  of  auction  bridge  for  small  stakes 
in  order  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  travel; 
and  if  it  should  so  fall  out  that  Mr.  Y  and  his 
friend  Mr.  X  chanced  to  be  the  only  available 
candidates  for  a  foursome  at  this  fascinating 
pursuit;  and  if  Mr.  Z,  being  still  hostile  toward 
[52] 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

the  sobered  and  repentant  Mr.  Y,  should  decline 
to  take  on  either  Mr.  Y  or  his  friend  X  as 
a  partner,  but  chose  you  instead;  and  if  on  the 
second  or  third  deal  you  picked  up  your  cards 
and  found  you  had  an  apparently  unbeatable 
hand  and  should  bid  accordingly;  and  Mr.  X 
should  double  you;  and  Mr.  Z,  sitting  across 
from  you  should  come  gallantly  right  back  and 
redouble  it;  and  Mr.  Y,  catching  the  spirit  of 
the  moment,  should  double  again — and  so  on  and 
so  forth  until  each  point,  instead  of  being  worth 
only  a  paltry  cent  or  two,  had  accumulated  a 
value  of  a  good  many  cents — if  all  these  things 
or  most  of  them  should  befall  in  the  order 
enumerated — why,  then,  if  I  were  you,  gentle 
reader,  I  would  have  a  care.  And  I  should  leave 
that  game  and  go  somewhere  else  to  have  it  too 
—lest  a  worse  thing  befall  you  as  it  befell  the 
guileless  young  Jerseyman  on  our  ship. 

After  he  had  paid  out  a  considerable  sum  on 
being  beaten — by  just  one  card — upon  the  play- 
ing of  his  seemingly  unbeatable  hand  and  after 
the  haunting  and  elusive  odor  of  eau  de  rodent 
had  become  plainly  perceptible  all  over  the  ship, 
he  began,  as  the  saying  goes,  to  smell  a  rat 
himself,  and  straightway  declined  to  make  good 
his  remaining  losses,  amounting  to  quite  a  tidy 
amount.  Following  this  there  were  high  words, 
meaning  by  that  low  ones,  and  accusations  and 
recriminations,  and  at  eventide  when  the  sunset 
was  a  welter  of  purple  and  gold,  there  was  a 
sudden  smashing  of  glassware  in  the  smoking 
[531 


EUROPE    REVISED 


room  and  a  flurry  of  arms  and  legs  in  a  far 
corner,  and  a  couple  of  pained  stewards  scurry- 
ing about  saying,  "Ow,  now,  don't  do  that,  sir, 
if  you  please,  sir,  thank  you,  sir!"  And  one  of 
the  belligerents  came  forth  from  the  melee 
wearing  a  lavender  eye  with  saffron  trimmings, 
as  though  to  match  the  sunset,  and  the  other 
with  a  set  of  skinned  knuckles,  emblematic  of 
the  skinning  operations  previously  undertaken. 
And  through  all  the  ship  ran  the  hissing  tongues 
of  scandal  and  gossip. 

Out  of  wild  rumor  and  cross-rumor,  certain 
salient  facts  were  eventually  precipitated  like 
sediment  from  a  clouded  solution.  It  seemed 
that  the  engaging  Messrs.  X,  Y  and  Z  had  been 
induced,  practically  under  false  pretenses  to 
book  passage,  they  having  read  in  the  public 
prints  that  the  prodigal  and  card-foolish  son  of 
a  cheese-paring  millionaire  father  meant  to 
take  the  ship  too;  but  he  had  grievously  disap- 
pointed them  by  not  coming  aboard  at  all. 
Then,  when  in  an  effort  to  make  their  traveling 
expenses  back,  they  uncorked  their  newest 
trick  and  device  for  inspiring  confidence  in 
gudgeons,  the  particular  gudgeon  of  their  choos- 
ing had  refused  to  pay  up.  Naturally  they  were 
fretful  and  peevish  in  the  extreme.  It  spoiled 
the  whole  trip  for  them. 

Except  for  this  one  small  affair  it  was,  on  the 

whole,  a  pleasant  voyage.     We  had  only  one 

storm    and    one    ship's    concert,    and    at    the 

finish  most  of  us  were  strong  enough  to  have 

[54] 


MY    BONNY    LIES    OVER    THE    OCEAN 

stood  another  storm.  And  the  trip  had  been 
worth  a  lot  to  us — at  least  it  had  been  worth  a 
lot  to  me,  for  I  had  crossed  the  ocean  on  one 
of  the  biggest  hotels  afloat.  I  had  amassed 
quite  a  lot  of  nautical  terms  that  would  come 
in  very  handy  for  stunning  the  folks  at  home 
when  I  got  back.  I  had  had  my  first  thrill  at 
the  sight  of  foreign  shores.  And  just  by  casual 
contact  with  members  of  the  British  aristocracy, 
I  had  acquired  such  a  heavy  load  of  true  British 
hauteur  that  in  parting  on  the  landing  dock  I 
merely  bowed  distantly  toward  those  of  my  fel- 
low Americans  to  whom  I  had  not  been  intro- 
duced; and  they,  having  contracted  the  same 
disease,  bowed  back  in  the  same  haughty  and 
distant  manner. 

When  some  of  us  met  again,  however,  in 
Vienna,  the  insulation  had  been  entirely  rubbed 
off  and  we  rushed  madly  into  one  another's 
arms  and  exchanged  names  and  addresses;  and, 
babbling  feverishly  the  while,  we  told  one  an- 
other what  our  favorite  flower  was,  and  our  birth- 
stone  and  our  grandmother's  maiden  name,  and 
what  we  thought  of  a  race  of  people  who  re- 
garded a  cup  of  ostensible  coffee  and  a  dab  of 
honey  as  constituting  a  man's-size  breakfast. 
And,  being  pretty  tolerably  homesick  by  that 
time,  we  leaned  in  toward  a  common  center  and 
gave  three  loud,  vehement  cheers  for  the  land 
of  the  country  sausage  and  the  home  of  the  buck- 
wheat cake — and,  as  giants  refreshed,  went  on 
our  ways  rejoicing. 

[55] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


That,  though,  was  to  come  later.  At  present 
we  are  concerned  with  the  trip  over  and  what 
we  had  severally  learned  from  it.  I  personally 
had  learned,  among  other  things,  that  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean,  considered  as  such,  is  a  considerably 
overrated  body.  Having  been  across  it,  even 
on  so  big  and  fine  and  well-ordered  a  ship  as 
this  ship  was,  the  ocean,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
not  at  all  what  it  had  been  cracked  up  to  be. 

During  the  first  day  out  it  is  a  novelty  and  after 
that  a  monotony — except  when  it  is  rough ;  and 
then  it  is  a  doggoned  nuisance.  Poets  without 
end  have  written  of  the  sea,  but  I  take  it  they 
stayed  at  home  to  do  their  writing.  They  were 
not  on  the  bounding  billow  when  they  praised 
it;  if  they  had  been  they  might  have  decorated 
the  billow,  but  they  would  never  have  praised  it. 

As  the  old  song  so  happily  put  it:  My  Bonny 
Lies  Over  the  Ocean!  And  a  lot  of  others  have 
lied  over  it  too;  but  I  will  not — at  least  not 
just  yet.  Perhaps  later  on  I  may  feel  moved 
to  do  so;  but  at  this  moment  I  am  but  newly 
landed  from  it  and  my  heart  is  full  of  rankling 
resentment  toward  the  ocean  and  all  its  works. 

I  speak  but  a  sober  conviction  when  I  say 
that  the  chief  advantage  to  be  derived  from 
taking  an  ocean  voyage  is  not  that  you  took  it, 
but  that  you  have  it  to  talk  about  afterward. 
And,  to  my  mind,  the  most  inspiring  sight  to  be 
witnessed  on  a  trip  across  the  Atlantic  is  the  Bat- 
tery— viewed  from  the  ocean  side,  coming  back. 

Do  I  hear  any  seconds  to  that  motion? 
[56] 


CHAPTER  III 

BATHING  ONESELF  ON  THE  OTHER 
SIDE 


MY   first    experience    with    the    bath- 
ing habits  of  the  native  Aryan  stocks 
of  Europe  came  to  pass  on  the  morn- 
ing after  the  night  of  our  arrival  in 
London. 

London  disappointed  me  in  one  regard — 
when  I  opened  my  eyes  that  morning  there  was 
no  fog.  There  was  not  the  slightest  sign  of  a 
fog.  I  had  expected  that  my  room  would  be 
full  of  fog  of  about  the  consistency  of  Scotch 
stage  dialect — soupy,  you  know,  and  thick  and 
bewildering.  I  had  expected  that  servants  with 
lighted  tapers  in  their  hands  would  be  groping 
their  way  through  corridors  like  caves,  and  that 
from  the  street  without  would  come  the  hoarse- 
voiced  cries  of  cabmen  lost  in  the  enshrouding 
gray.  You  remember  Dickens  always  had  them 
hoarse-voiced. 

This  was  what  I  confidently  expected.    Such, 
however,  was  not  to  be.    I  woke  to  a  conscious- 
[571 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ness  that  the  place  was  flooded  with  indubitable 
and  undoubted  sunshine.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
not  the  sharp,  hard  sunshine  we  have  in  America, 
which  scours  and  bleaches  all  it  touches,  until 
the  whole  world  has  the  look  of  having  just  been 
clear-starched  and  hot-ironed.  It  was  a  soft- 
ened, smoke-edged,  pastel-shaded  sunshine; 
nevertheless  it  was  plainly  recognizable  as  the 
genuine  article. 

Nor  was  your  London  shadow  the  sharply 
outlined  companion  in  black  who  accompanies 
you  when  the  weather  is  fine  in  America.  Your 
shadow  in  London  was  rather  a  dim  and  wavery 
gentleman  who  caught  up  with  you  as  you 
turned  out  of  the  shaded  by-street;  who  went 
with  you  a  distance  and  then  shyly  vanished, 
but  was  good  company  while  he  stayed,  being 
restful,  as  your  well-bred  Englishman  nearly 
always  is,  and  not  overly  aggressive. 

There  was  no  fog  that  first  morning,  or  the 
next  morning,  or  any  morning  of  the  twenty- 
odd  we  spent  in  England.  Often  the  weather 
was  cloudy,  and  occasionally  it  was  rainy;  and 
then  London  would  be  drenched  in  that  won- 
derful gray  color  which  makes  it,  scenically 
speaking,  one  of  the  most  fascinating  spots  on 
earth;  but  it  was  never  downright  foggy  and 
never  downright  cold.  English  friends  used  to 
speak  to  me  about  it.  They  apologized  for 
good  weather  at  that  season  of  the  year,  just 
as  natives  of  a  Florida  winter  resort  will  apolo- 
gize for  bad. 

[58] 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

"You  know,  old  dear,"  they  would  say,  "this 
is  most  unusual — most  stroidinary,  in  fact.  It 
ought  to  be  raw  and  nasty  and  foggy  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  and  here  the  cursed  weather 
is  perfectly  fine — blast  it!"  You  could  tell  they 
were  grieved  about  it,  and  disappointed  too. 
Anything  that  is  not  regular  upsets  Englishmen 
frightfully.  Maybe  that  is  why  they  enforce 
their  laws  so  rigidly  and  obey  them  so  beauti- 
fully. 

Anyway  I  woke  to  find  the  fog  absent,  and  I 
rose  and  prepared  to  take  my  customary  cold 
bath.  I  am  much  given  to  taking  a  cold  bath 
in  the  morning  and  speaking  of  it  afterward. 
People  who  take  a  cold  bath  every  day  always 
like  to  brag  about  it,  whether  they  take  it  or  not. 

The  bathroom  adjoined  the  bedroom,  but  did 
not  directly  connect  with  it,  being  reached  by 
means  of  a  small  semi-private  hallway.  It  was 
a  fine,  noble  bathroom,  white  tiled  and  spotless; 
and  one  side  of  it  was  occupied  by  the  longest, 
narrowest  bathtub  I  ever  saw.  Apparently  Eng- 
lish bathtubs  are  constructed  on  the  principle 
that  every  Englishman  who  bathes  is  nine 
feet  long  and  about  eighteen  inches  wide, 
whereas  the  approximate  contrary  is  frequently 
the  case.  Draped  over  a  chair  was  the  biggest, 
widest,  softest  bathtowel  ever  made.  Shem, 
Ham  and  Japhet  could  have  dried  themselves 
on  that  bathtowel,  and  there  would  still  have 
been  enough  dry  territory  left  for  some  of  the 
animals — not  the  large,  woolly  animals  like  the 
[59] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Siberian  yak,  but  the  small,  slick,  porous  ani- 
mals such  as  the  armadillo  and  the  Mexican 
hairless  dog. 

So  I  wedged  myself  into  the  tub  and  had  a 
snug-fitting  but  most  luxurious  bath;  and  when 
I  got  back  to  my  room  the  maid  had  arrived 
with  the  shaving  water.  There  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  when  I  opened  it  there  stood  a 
maid  with  a  lukewarm  pint  of  water  in  a  long- 
waisted,  thin-lipped  pewter  pitcher.  There  was 
plenty  of  hot  water  to  be  had  in  the  bathroom, 
with  faucets  and  sinks  all  handy  and  convenient, 
and  a  person  might  shave  himself  there  in  abso- 
lute comfort;  but  long  before  the  days  of  pipes 
and  taps  an  Englishman  got  his  shaving  water 
in  a  pewter  ewer,  and  he  still  gets  it  so.  It  is 
one  of  the  things  guaranteed  him  under  Magna 
Charta  and  he  demands  it  as  a  right;  but  I, 
being  but  a  benighted  foreigner,  left  mine  in 
the  pitcher,  and  that  evening  the  maid  checked 
me  up. 

"You  didn't  use  the  shaving  water  I  brought 
you  to-day,  sir!"  she  said.  "It  was  still  in  the 
jug  when  I  came  in  to  tidy  up,  sir." 

Her  tone  was  grieved;  so,  after  that,  to  spare 
her  feelings,  I  used  to  pour  it  down  the  sink. 
But  if  I  were  doing  the  trip  over  again  I  would 
drink  it  for  breakfast  instead  of  the  coffee  the 
waiter  brought  me — the  shaving  water  being 
warmish  and  containing,  so  far  as  I  could  tell, 
no  deleterious  substances.  And  if  the  bathroom 
were  occupied  at  the  time  I  would  shave  myself 
[60] 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

with  the  coffee.  I  judge  it  might  work  up  into 
a  thick  and  durable  lather.  It  is  certainly  not 
adapted  for  drinking  purposes. 

The  English,  as  a  race,  excel  at  making  tea 
and  at  drinking  it  after  it  is  made;  but  among 
them  coffee  is  still  a  mysterious  and  murky 
compound  full  of  strange  by-products.  By  first 
weakening  it  and  wearing  it  down  with  warm 
milk  one  may  imbibe  it;  but  it  is  not  to  be 
reckoned  among  the  pleasures  of  life.  It  is  a 
solemn  and  a  painful  duty. 

On  the  second  morning  I  was  splashing  in  my 
tub,  gratifying  that  amphibious  instinct  which 
has  come  down  to  us  from  the  dim  evolutionary 
time  when  we  were  paleozoic  polliwogs,  when  I 
made  the  discovery  that  there  were  no  towels 
in  the  bathroom.  I  glanced  about  keenly,  seek- 
ing for  help  and  guidance  in  such  an  emergency. 
Set  in  the  wall  directly  above  the  rim  of  the  tub 
was  a  brass  plate  containing  two  pushbuttons. 
One  button,  the  uppermost  one,  was  labeled 
Waiter — the  other  was  labeled  Maid. 

This  was  disconcerting.  Even  in  so  short  a 
stay  under  the  roof  of  an  English  hotel  I  had 
learned  that  at  this  hour  the  waiter  would  be 
hastening  from  room  to  room,  ministering  to 
Englishmen  engaged  in  gumming  their  vital 
organs  into  an  impenetrable  mass  with  the 
national  dish  of  marmalade;  and  that  the  maid 
would  also  be  busy  carrying  shaving  water  to 
people  who  did  not  need  it.  Besides,  of  all  the 
classes  I  distinctly  do  not  require  when  I  am 
[61] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


bathing,  one  is  waiters  and  the  other  is  maids. 

For  some  minutes  I  considered  the  situation, 
without  making  any  headway  toward  a  suitable 
solution  of  it;  meantime  I  was  getting  chilled. 
So  I  dried  myself — sketchily — with  a  tooth- 
brush and  the  edge  of  the  window-shade;  then  I 
dressed,  and  in  a  still  somewhat  moist  state  I 
went  down  to  interview  the  management  about 
it.  I  first  visited  the  information  desk  and  told 
the  youth  in  charge  there  I  wished  to  converse 
with  some  one  in  authority  on  the  subject  of 
towels.  After  gazing  at  me  a  spell  in  a  puzzled 
manner  he  directed  me  to  go  across  the  lobby 
to  the  cashier's  department.  Here  I  found  a 
gentleman  of  truly  regal  aspect.  His  tie  was  a 
perfect  dream  of  a  tie,  and  he  wore  a  frock  coat 
so  slim  and  long  and  black  it  made  him  look  as 
though  he  were  climbing  out  of  a  smokestack. 
Presenting  the  case  as  though  it  were  a  supposi- 
titious one  purely,  I  said  to  him: 

"Presuming  now  that  one  of  your  guests  is 
in  a  bathtub  and  finds  he  has  forgotten  to  lay 
in  any  towels  beforehand — such  a  thing  might 
possibly  occur,  you  know — how  does  he  go 
about  summoning  the  man-servant  or  the  valet 
with  a  view  to  getting  some?" 

"Oh,  sir,"  he  replied,  "that's  very  simple. 
You  noticed  two  pushbuttons  in  your  bathroom, 
didn't  you?" 

"I  did,"  I  said,  "and  that's  just  the  difficulty. 
One  of  them  is  for  the  maid  and  the  other  is 
for  the  waiter." 

[62] 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

"Quite  so,  sir,"  he  said,  "quite  so.  Very 
well,  then,  sir:  You  ring  for  the  waiter  or  the 
maid — or,  if  you  should  charnce  to  be  in  a 
hurry,  for  both  of  them;  because,  you  see,  one 
of  them  might  charnce  to  be  en — 

"One  moment,"  I  said.  "Let  me  make  my 
position  clear  in  this  matter :  This  Lady  Susan- 
na— I  do  not  know  her  last  name,  but  you  will 
doubtless  recall  the  person  I  mean,  because  I 
saw  several  pictures  of  her  yesterday  in  your 
national  art  gallery — this  Lady  Susanna  may 
have  enjoyed  taking  a  bath  with  a  lot  of  snoopy 
old  elders  lurking  round  in  the  background;  but 
I  am  not  so  constituted.  I  was  raised  differently 
from  that.  With  me,  bathing  has  ever  been  a 
solitary  pleasure.  This  may  denote  selfishness 
on  my  part;  but  such  is  my  nature  and  I  cannot 
alter  it.  All  my  folks  feel  about  it  as  I  do.  We 
are  a  very  peculiar  family  that  way.  When 
bathing  we  do  not  invite  an  audience.  Nor  do  I 
want  one.  A  crowd  would  only  embarrass  me. 
I  merely  desire  a  little  privacy  and,  here  and 
there,  a  towel." 

"Ah,  yes!  Quite  so,  sir,"  he  said;  "but  you 
do  not  understand  me.  As  I  said  before,  you 
ring  for  the  waiter  or  the  maid.  When  one  of 
them  comes  you  tell  them  to  send  you  the  man- 
servant on  your  floor;  and  when  he  comes  you 
tell  him  you  require  towels,  and  he  goes  to  the 
linen  cupboard  and  gets  them  and  fetches  them 
to  you,  sir.  It's  very  simple,  sir." 

"But  why,"  I  persisted,  "why  do  this  thing 
[63] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


by  a  relay  system?  I  don't  want  any  famishing 
gentleman  in  this  place  to  go  practically  un- 
marmaladed  at  breakfast  because  I  am  using 
the  waiter  to  conduct  preliminary  negotiations 
with  a  third  party  in  regard  to  a  bathtowel." 

"But  it  is  so  very  simple,  sir,"  he  repeated 
patiently.  "You  ring  for  the  waiter  or  the 
ma—" 

I  checked  him  with  a  gesture.  I  felt  that  I 
knew  what  he  meant  to  say;  I  also  felt  that  if  any 
word  of  mine  might  serve  to  put  this  establish- 
ment on  an  easy-running  basis  they  could  have 
it  and  welcome. 

"Listen!"  I  said.  "You  will  kindly  pardon 
the  ignorance  of  a  poor,  red,  partly  damp  Ameri- 
can who  has  shed  his  eagle  feathers  but  still  has 
his  native  curiosity  with  him!  Why  not  put  a 
third  button  in  that  bathroom  labeled  Man- 
servant or  Valet  or  Towel  Boy,  or  something 
of  that  general  nature?  And  then  when  a 
sufferer  wanted  towels,  and  wanted  'em  quick, 
he  could  get  them  without  blocking  the  wheels 
of  progress  and  industry.  We  may  still  be 
shooting  Mohawk  Indians  and  the  American 
bison  in  the  streets  of  Buffalo,  New  York;  and 
we  may  still  be  saying:  'By  Geehosaphat,  I 
swan  to  calculate!' — anyway,  I  note  that  we 
still  say  that  in  all  your  leading  comic  papers; 
but  when  a  man  in  my  land  goes  a-toweling,  he 
goes  a-toweling — and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it, 
positively!  In  our  secret  lodges  it  may  happen 
that  the  worshipful  master  calls  the  august 
[64] 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

swordbearer  to  him  and  bids  him  communicate 
with  the  grand  outer  guardian  and  see  whether 
the  candidate  is  suitably  attired  for  admission ; 
but  in  ordinary  life  we  cut  out  the  middleman 
wherever  possible.  Do  you  get  my  drift?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  said;  "but  I  fear  you  do 
not  understand  me.  As  I  told  you,  it's  very 
simple — so  very  simple,  sir.  We've  never  found 
it  necessary  to  make  a  change.  You  ring  for 
the  waiter  or  for  the  maid,  and  you  tell  them 
to  tell  the  manservant — 

"All  right,"  I  said,  breaking  in.  I  could  see 
that  his  arguments  were  of  the  circular  variety 
that  always  came  back  to  the  starting  point. 
"But,  as  a  favor  to  me,  would  you  kindly  ask 
the  proprietor  to  request  the  head  cook  to 
communicate  with  the  carriage  starter  and  have 
him  inform  the  waiter  that  when  in  future  I 
ring  the  bathroom  bell  in  a  given  manner — to 
wit:  one  long,  determined  ring  followed  by 
three  short,  passionate  rings — it  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  signal  for  towels?" 

So  saying,  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  went 
away,  for  I  could  tell  he  was  getting  ready  to 
begin  all  over  again.  Later  on  I  found  out  for 
myself  that,  in  this  particular  hotel,  when  you 
ring  for  the  waiter  or  the  maid  the  bell  sounds 
in  the  service  room,  where  those  functionaries 
are  supposed  to  be  stationed;  but  when  you 
ring  for  the  manservant  a  small  arm-shaped  de- 
vice like  a  semaphore  drops  down  over  your 
outer  door.  But  what  has  the  manservant  done 
[65] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


that  he  should  be  thus  discriminated  against? 
Why  should  he  not  have  a  bell  of  his  own?  So 
far  as  I  might  judge,  the  poor  fellow  has  few 
enough  pleasures  in  life  as  it  is.  Why  should 
he  battle  with  the  intricacies  of  a  block-signal 
system  when  everybody  else  round  the  place 
has  a  separate  bell?  And  why  all  this  mystery 
and  mummery  over  so  simple  and  elemental  a 
thing  as  a  towel? 

To  my  mind,  it  merely  helps  to  prove  that 
among  the  English  the  art  of  bathing  is  still  in 
its  infancy.  The  English  claim  to  have  dis- 
covered the  human  bath  and  they  resent  mildly 
the  assumption  that  any  other  nation  should 
become  addicted  to  it;  whereas  I  argue  that  the 
burden  of  the  proof  shows  we  do  more  bath- 
ing to  the  square  inch  of  surface  than  the  Eng- 
lish ever  did.  At  least,  we  have  superior  accom- 
modations for  it. 

The  day  is  gone  in  this  country  when  Saturday 
night  was  the  big  night  for  indoor  aquatic 
sports  and  pastimes;  and  no  gentleman  as  was 
a  gentleman  would  call  on  his  ladylove  and 
break  up  her  plans  for  the  great  weekly  cere- 
mony. There  may  have  been  a  time  in  certain 
rural  districts  when  the  bathing  season  for 
males  practically  ended  on  September  fifteenth, 
owing  to  the  water  in  the  horsepond  becoming 
chilled;  but  that  time  has  passed.  Along  with 
every  modern  house  that  is  built  to-day,  in  coun- 
try or  town,  we  expect  bathrooms  and  plenty 
of  them.  With  us  the  presence  of  a  few  bath- 
[661 


i      ,   •••;• 


THE  BATHING  HABIT  OF  MERRIE  ENGLAND  IS  A  VENERABLE  MYTH 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

tubs  more  or  less  creates  no  great  amount  of 
excitement — nor  does  the  mere  sight  of  open 
plumbing  particularly  stir  our  people;  whereas 
in  England  a  hotelkeeper  who  has  bathrooms 
on  the  premises  advertises  the  fact  on  his 
stationery. 

If  in  addition  to  a  few  bathrooms  a  Con- 
tinental hotelkeeper  has  a  decrepit  elevator  he 
makes  more  noise  over  it  than  we  do  over  a 
Pompeian  palmroom  or  an  Etruscan  roof  garden ; 
he  hangs  a  sign  above  his  front  door  testifying 
to  his  magnificent  enterprise  in  this  regard.  The 
Continental  may  be  a  born  hotelkeeper,  as  has 
been  frequently  claimed  for  him;  but  the  trouble 
is  he  usually  has  no  hotel  to  keep.  It  is  as  though 
you  set  an  interior  decorator  to  run  a  livery 
stable  and  expected  him  to  make  it  attractive. 
He  may  have  the  talents,  but  he  is  lacking  in 
the  raw  material. 

It  was  in  a  London  apartment  house,  out 
Maida  Vale  way,  that  I  first  beheld  the  official 
bathtub  of  an  English  family  establishment. 
It  was  one  of  those  bathtubs  that  flourished  in 
our  own  land  at  about  the  time  of  the  Green- 
back craze — a  coffin-shaped,  boxed-in  affair 
lined  with  zinc;  and  the  zinc  was  suffering  from 
tetter  or  other  serious  skin  trouble  and  was  peel- 
ing badly.  There  was  a  current  superstition 
about  the  place  to  the  effect  that  the  bathroom 
and  the  water  supply  might  on  occasion  be 
heated  with  a  device  known  in  the  vernacular 
as  a  geezer. 

[69] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


The  geezer  was  a  sheet-iron  contraption  in 
the  shape  of  a  pocket  inkstand,  and  it  stood  on 
a  perch  in  the  corner,  like  a  Russian  icon,  with 
a  small  blue  flame  flickering  beneath  it.  It 
looked  as  though  its  sire  might  have  been  a 
snare-drum  and  its  dam  a  dark  lantern,  and 
that  it  got  its  looks  from  its  father  and  its  heat- 
ing powers  from  the  mother's  side  of  the  family. 
And  the  plumbing  fixtures  were  of  the  type  that 
passed  out  of  general  use  on  the  American  side 
of  the  water  with  the  Rutherford  B.  Hayes  ad- 
ministration. I  was  given  to  understand  that 
this  was  a  fair  sample  of  the  average  residential 
London  bathroom — though  the  newer  apart- 
ment houses  that  are  going  up  have  better  ones, 
they  told  me. 

In  English  country  houses  the  dearth  of  bath- 
ing appliances  must  be  even  more  dearthful.  I 
ran  through  the  columns  of  the  leading  English 
fashion  journal  and  read  the  descriptions  of  the 
large  country  places  that  were  there  offered 
for  sale  or  lease.  In  many  instances  the  ad- 
vertisements were  accompanied  by  photographic 
reproductions  in  half  tone  showing  magnificent 
old  places,  with  Queen  Anne  fronts  and  Tudor 
towers  and  Elizabethan  entails  and  Georgian 
mortgages,  and  what  not. 

Seeing  these  views  I  could  conjure  up  visions 
of  rooks  cawing  in  the  elms;  of  young  curates 
in  flat  hats  imbibing  tea  on  green  lawns;  of 
housekeepers  named  Meadows  or  Fleming,  in 
rustling  black  silk;  of  old  Giles — fifty  years, 
[701 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

man  and  boy,  on  the  place — wearing  a  smock 
frock  and  leaning  on  a  pitchfork,  with  a  wisp 
of  hay  caught  in  the  tines,  lamenting  that  the 
'All  'asn't  been  the  same,  zur,  since  the  young 
marster  was  killed  ridin'  to  'ounds;  and  then 
pensively  wiping  his  eyes  on  a  stray  strand  of 
the  hay. 

With  no  great  stretch  of  the  imagination  I 
could  picture  a  gouty,  morose  old  lord  with  a 
secret  sorrow  and  a  brandy  breath;  I  could 
picture  a  profligate  heir  going  deeper  and  deeper 
in  debt,  but  refusing  to  the  bitter  end  to  put 
the  ax  to  the  roots  of  the  ancestral  oaks.  I 
could  imagine  these  parties  readily,  because  I 
had  frequently  read  about  both  of  them  in  the 
standard  English  novels;  and  I  had  seen  them 
depicted  in  all  the  orthodox  English  dramas 
I  ever  patronized.  But  I  did  not  notice  in  the 
appended  descriptions  any  extended  notice  of 
heating  arrangements;  most  of  the  advertise- 
ments seemed  to  slur  over  that  point  altogether. 

And,  as  regards  bathing  facilities  in  their  re- 
lation to  the  capacities  of  these  country  places, 
I  quote  at  random  from  the  figures  given: 
Eighteen  rooms  and  one  bath;  sixteen  rooms 
and  two  baths;  fourteen  rooms  and  one  bath; 
twenty-one  rooms  and  two  baths;  eleven  rooms 
and  one  bath;  thirty-four  rooms  and  two  baths. 
Remember  that  by  rooms  bedrooms  were  meant; 
the  reception  rooms  and  parlors  and  dining  halls 
and  offices,  and  the  like,  were  listed  separately. 

I  asked  a  well-informed  Englishman  how  he 
[71] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


could  reconcile  this  discrepancy  between  bed- 
rooms and  bathrooms  with  the  current  belief 
that  the  English  had  a  practical  monopoly  of 
the  habit  of  bathing.  After  considering  the 
proposition  at  some  length  he  said  I  should 
understand  there  was  a  difference  in  England 
between  taking  a  bath  and  taking  a  tub — that, 
though  an  Englishman  might  not  be  particularly 
addicted  to  a  bath,  he  must  have  his  tub  every 
morning.  But  I  submit  that  the  facts  prove 
this  explanation  to  have  been  but  a  feeble 
subterfuge. 

Let  us,  for  an  especially  conspicuous  example, 
take  the  house  that  has  thirty-four  sleeping 
chambers  and  only  two  baths.  Let  us  imagine 
the  house  to  be  full  of  guests,  with  every  bed- 
room occupied;  and,  if  it  is  possible  to  do  so 
without  blushing,  let  us  further  imagine  a  couple 
of  pink-and-white  English  gentlemen  in  the  two 
baths.  If  preferable,  members  of  the  opposite 
sex  may  imagine  two  ladies.  Very  well,  then; 
this  leaves  the  occupants  of  thirty-two  bedrooms 
all  to  be  provided  with  large  tin  tubs  at  approxi- 
mately the  same  hour  of  the  morning.  Where 
would  any  household  muster  the  crews  to  man 
all  those  portable  tin  tubs?  And  where  would 
the  proprietor  keep  his  battery  of  thirty-two 
tubs  when  they  were  not  in  use?  Not  in  the 
family  picture  gallery,  surely! 

From  my  readings  of  works  of  fiction  describ- 
ing the  daily  life  of  the  English  upper  classes  I 
know  full  well  that  the  picture  gallery  is  lined 
[72] 


BATHING    ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

with  family  portraits;  that  each  canvased  coun- 
tenance there  shows  the  haughtily  aquiline  but 
slightly  catarrhal  nose,  which  is  a  heritage  of 
this  house;  that  each  pair  of  dark  and  brooding 
eyes  hide  in  their  depths  the  shadow  of  that 
dread  Nemesis  which,  through  all  the  fateful 
centuries,  has  dogged  this  brave  but  ill-starred 
race  until  now,  alas!  the  place  must  be  let,  fur- 
nished, to  some  beastly  creature  in  trade,  such 
as  an  American  millionaire. 

Here  at  this  end  we  have  the  founder  of  the 
line,  dubbed  a  knight  on  the  gory  field  of  Hast- 
ings; and  there  at  that  end  we  have  the  present 
heir,  a  knighted  dub.  We  know  they  cannot 
put  the  tubs  in  the  family  picture  gallery;  there 
is  no  room.  They  need  an  armory  for  that 
outfit,  and  no  armory  is  specified  in  the  ad- 
vertisement. 

So  I,  for  one,  must  decline  to  be  misled  or 
deceived  by  specious  generalities.  If  you  are 
asking  me  my  opinion  I  shall  simply  say  that 
the  bathing  habit  of  Merrie  England  is  a  vener- 
able myth,  and  likewise  so  is  the  fresh-air  fetish. 
The  error  an  Englishman  makes  is  that  he  mis- 
takes cold  air  for  fresh  air. 

In  cold  weather  an  Englishman  arranges  a 
few  splintered  jackstraws,  kindling  fashion,  in 
an  open  grate  somewhat  resembling  in  size  and 
shape  a  wallpocket  for  bedroom  slippers.  On 
this  substructure  he  gently  deposits  one  or 
more  carboniferous  nodules  the  size  of  a  pigeon 
egg,  and  touches  a  match  to  the  whole.  In  the 
[731 


EUROPE    REVISED 


more  fortunate  instances  the  result  is  a  small, 
reddish  ember  smoking  intermittently.  He 
stands  by  and  feeds  the  glow  with  a  dessert- 
spoonful of  fuel  administered  at  half-hour  in- 
tervals, and  imagines  he  really  has  a  fire  and 
that  he  is  really  being  warmed. 

Why  the  English  insist  on  speaking  of  coal 
in  the  plural  when  they  use  it  only  in  the  singu- 
lar is  more  than  I  can  understand.  Conceded 
that  we  overheat  our  houses  and  our  railroad 
trains  and  our  hotel  lobbies  in  America,  never- 
theless we  do  heat  them.  In  winter  their  in- 
teriors are  warmer  and  less  damp  than  the  outer 
air — which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the 
lands  across  the  sea,  where  you  have  to  go  out- 
doors to  thaw. 

If  there  are  any  outdoor  sleeping  porches  in 
England  I  missed  them  when  I  was  there;  but 
as  regards  the  ventilation  of  an  English  hotel 
I  may  speak  with  authority,  having  patronized 
one.  To  begin  with,  the  windows  have  heavy 
shades.  Back  of  these  in  turn  are  folding  blinds; 
then  long,  close  curtains  of  muslin;  then,  finally, 
thick,  manifolding,  shrouding  draperies  of  some 
airproof  woolen  stuff.  At  nighttime  the  maid 
enters  your  room,  seals  the  windows,  pulls  down 
the  shades,  locks  the  shutters,  closes  the  cur- 
tains, draws  the  draperies — and  then,  I  think, 
calks  all  the  cracks  with  oakum.  When  the 
occupant  of  that  chamber  retires  to  rest  he  is 
as  hermetic  as  old  Rameses  the  First,  safe  in 
his  tomb,  ever  dared  to  hope  to  be.  That  red- 
[74] 


BATHING    OX    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

dish  aspect  of  the  face  noted  in  connection  with 
the  average  Englishman  is  not  due  to  fresh  air, 
as  has  been  popularly  supposed;  it  is  due  to 
the  lack  of  it.  It  is  caused  by  congestion.  For 
years  he  has  been  going  along,  trying  to  breathe 
without  having  the  necessary  ingredients  at 
hand. 

At  that,  England  excels  the  rest  of  Europe 
in  fresh  air,  just  as  it  excels  it  in  the  matter 
of  bathing  facilities.  There  is  some  fresh  air 
left  in  England — -an  abundant  supply  in  warm 
weather,  and  a  stray  bit  here  and  there  in  cold. 
On  the  Continent  there  is  none  to  speak  of. 


[75]] 


CHAPTER  IV 
JACQUES,  THE  FORSAKEN 


IN  Germany  the  last  fresh  air  was  used  dur- 
ing the  Thirty  Years'  War,  and  there  has 
since   been  no  demand  for  any.      Austria 
has   no    fresh  air  at  all — never  did  have 
any,  and  therefore  has  never  felt  the  need  of 
having  any.    Italy — the  northern  part  of  it  any- 
how— is  also  reasonably  shy  of  this  commodity. 
In  the  German-speaking  countries  all  street 
cars  and  all  railway  trains  sail  with  battened 
hatches.     In  their  palmiest  days  the  Jimmy 
Hope  gang  could  not  have  opened  a  window  in 
a  German  sleeping  car — not  without  blasting; 
and  trying  to  open  a  window  in  the  ordinary 
first  or  second  class  carriage  provides  healthful 
exercise  for  an  American  tourist,  while  affording 
a  cheap  and  simple  form  of  amusement  for  his 
fellow  passengers.     If,  by  superhuman  efforts 
and  at  the  cost  of  a  fingernail  or  two,  he  should 
get  one  open,  somebody  else  in  the  compartment 
as  a  matter  of  principle,  immediately  objects; 
[76] 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


and  the  retired  brigadier-general,  who  is  always 
in  charge  of  a  German  train,  comes  and  seals  it 
up  again,  for  that  is  the  rule  and  the  law;  and 
then  the  natives  are  satisfied  and  sit  in  sweet 
content  together,  breathing  a  line  of  second- 
handed  air  that  would  choke  a  salamander. 

Once,  a  good  many  years  ago — in  the  century 
before  the  last  I  think  it  was — a  member  of  the 
Teutonic  racial  stock  was  accidentally  caught  out 
in  the  fresh  air  and  some  of  it  got  into  his  lungs. 
And,  being  a  strange  and  a  foreign  influence  to 
which  the  lungs  were  unused,  it  sickened  him; 
in  fact  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  killed  him  on 
the  spot.  So  the  emperors  of  Germany  and 
Austria  got  together  and  issued  a  joint  ukase  on 
the  subject  and,  so  far  as  the  traveling  public 
was  concerned,  forever  abolished  those  danger- 
ous experiments.  Over  there  they  think  a  draft 
is  deadly,  and  I  presume  it  is  if  you  have  never 
tampered  with  one.  They  have  a  saying:  A 
little  window  is  a  dangerous  thing. 

As  with  fresh  air  on  the  Continent,  so  also 
with  baths — except  perhaps  more  so.  In  defer- 
ence to  the  strange  and  unaccountable  desires 
of  their  English-speaking  guests  the  larger  hotels 
in  Paris  are  abundantly  equipped  with  bathrooms 
now,  but  the  Parisian  boulevardiers  continue  to 
look  with  darkling  suspicion  on  a  party  who  will 
deliberately  immerse  his  person  in  cold  water; 
their  beings  seem  to  recoil  in  horror  from  the 
bare  prospect  of  such  a  thing.  It  is  plainly  to 
be  seen  they  think  his  intelligence  has  been 
[77] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


attainted  by  cold  water  externally  applied ;  they 
fear  that  through  a  complete  undermining  of 
his  reason  he  may  next  be  committing  these  acts 
of  violence  on  innocent  bystanders  rather  than 
on  himself,  as  in  the  present  distressing  stages 
of  his  mania.  Especially,  I  would  say,  is  this 
the  attitude  of  the  habitue  of  Montmartre. 

I  can  offer  no  visual  proof  to  back  my  word; 
but  by  other  testimony  I  venture  the  assertion 
that  when  a  boulevardier  feels  the  need  of  a 
bath  he  hangs  a  musk  bag  round  his  neck — and 
then,  as  the  saying  is,  the  warmer  the  sweeter. 
His  companion  of  the  gentler  sex  apparently  has 
the  same  idea  of  performing  daily  ablutions  that 
a  tabby  cat  has.  You  recall  the  tabby-cat  sys- 
tem, do  you  not? — two  swipes  over  the  brow 
with  the  moistened  paw,  one  forward  swipe  over 
each  ear,  a  kind  of  circular  rubbing  effect  across 
the  face — and  call  it  a  day !  Drowning  must  be 
the  most  frightful  death  that  a  Parisian  sidewalk 
favorite  can  die.  It  is  not  so  much  the  death 
itself — it  is  the  attendant  circumstances. 

Across  the  river,  in  the  older  quarters  of  Paris, 
there  is  excitement  when  anybody  on  the  block 
takes  a  bath — not  so  much  excitement  as  for  a 
fire,  perhaps,  but  more  than  for  a  funeral.  On 
the  eve  of  the  fatal  day  the  news  spreads  through 
the  district  that  to-morrow  poor  Jacques  is  going 
to  take  a  bath!  A  further  reprieve  has  been 
denied  him.  He  cannot  put  it  off  for  another 
month,  or  even  for  another  two  weeks.  His 
doom  is  nigh  at  hand;  there  is  no  hope — none! 
(781 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


Kindly  old  Angeline,  the  midwife,  shakes  her 
head  sadly  as  she  goes  about  her  simple  duties. 

On  the  morrow  the  condemned  man  rises  early 
and  sees  his  spiritual  adviser.  He  eats  a  hearty 
breakfast,  takes  an  affectionate  leave  of  his 
family  and  says  he  is  prepared  for  the  worst. 
At  the  appointed  hour  the  tumbrel  enters 
the  street,  driven  by  the  paid  executioner — a 
descendant  of  the  original  Sanson — and  bearing 
the  dread  instrument  of  punishment,  a  large 
oblong  tin  tub. 

The  rumble  of  the  heavy  wheels  over  the 
cobbles  seems  to  wake  an  agonized  chord  in 
every  bosom.  To-day  this  dread  visitation  de- 
scends on  Jacques;  but  who  can  tell — so  the 
neighbors  say  to  themselves — when  the  same 
fate  may  strike  some  other  household  now 
happily  unconscious!  All  along  the  narrow 
way  sorrow-drooped  heads  protrude  in  rows; 
from  every  casement  dangle  whiskers,  lank  and 
stringy  with  sympathy — for  in  this  section  every 
true  Frenchman  has  whiskers,  and  if  by  chance 
he  has  not  his  wife  has;  so  that  there  are  whiskers 
for  all. 

From  the  window  of  the  doomed  wretch's 
apartments  a  derrick  protrudes — a  crossarm 
with  a  pulley  and  a  rope  attached.  It  bears  a 
grimly  significant  resemblance  to  a  gallows  tree. 
Under  the  direction  of  the  presiding  functionary 
the  tub  is  made  fast  to  the  tackle  and  hoisted  up- 
ward as  pianos  and  safes  are  hoisted  in  Ameri- 
can cities.  It  halts  at  the  open  casement.  It 
[791 


EUROPE    REVISED 


vanishes  within.  The  whole  place  resounds  with 
low  murmurs  of  horror  and  commiseration. 

Ah,  the  poor  Jacques — how  he  must  suffer! 
Hark  to  that  low,  sickening  thud!  'Tis  the 
accursed  soap  dropping  from  his  nerveless  grasp. 
Hist  to  that  sound — like  unto  a  death  rattle! 
It  is  the  water  gurgling  in  the  tub.  And  what 
means  that  low,  poignant,  smothered  gasp?  It 
is  the  last  convulsive  cry  of  Jacques  descending 
into  the  depths.  All  is  over!  Let  us  pray! 

The  tub,  emptied  but  stained,  is  lowered  to 
the  waiting  cart.  The  executioner  kisses  the 
citizen  who  has  held  his  horse  for  him  during 
his  absence  and  departs;  the  whole  district  still 
hums  with  ill-suppressed  excitement.  Questions 
fly  from  tongue  to  tongue.  Was  the  victim 
brave  at  the  last?  Was  he  resigned  when  the 
dread  moment  came?  And  how  is  the  family 
bearing  up?  It  is  hours  before  the  place  settles 
down  again  to  that  calm  which  will  endure  for 
another  month,  until  somebody  else  takes  a  bath 
on  a  physician's  prescription. 

Even  in  the  sanctity  of  a  Paris  hotel  a  bath 
is  more  or  less  a  public  function  unless  you  lock 
your  door.  All  sorts  of  domestic  servitors  drift 
in,  filled  with  a  morbid  curiosity  to  see  how  a 
foreigner  deports  himself  when  engaged  in  this 
strange,  barbaric  rite.  On  the  occasion  of  my 
first  bath  on  French  soil,  after  several  of  the 
hired  help  had  thus  called  on  me  informally, 
causing  me  to  cower  low  in  my  porcelain  re- 
treat, I  took  advantage  of  a  moment  of  com- 
[80] 


I   HAD   HEARD   THAT   ONE   FELL   HEADLONG   INTO   ITS   SMOTHERING   FOLDS 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


parative  quiet  to  rise  drippingly  and  draw  the 
latch.  I  judged  the  proprietor  would  be  along 
next,  and  I  was  not  dressed  for  him.  The  Lady 
Susanna  of  whom  mention  has  previously  been 
made  must  have  stopped  at  a  French  hotel  at 
some  time  of  her  life.  This  helps  us  to  under- 
stand why  she  remained  so  calm  when  the  elders 
happened  in. 

Even  as  now  practiced,  bathing  still  remains 
a  comparative  novelty  in  the  best  French  circles, 
I  imagine.  I  base  this  presumption  on  observa- 
tions made  during  a  visit  to  Versailles.  I  went 
to  Versailles;  I  trod  with  reverent  step  those 
historic  precincts  adorned  with  art  treasures 
uncountable,  with  curios  magnificent,  with  relics 
invaluable.  I  visited  the  little  palace  and  the 
big;  I  ventured  deep  into  that  splendid  forest 
where,  in  the  company  of  ladies  regarding  whom 
there  has  been  a  good  deal  of  talk  subsequently, 
France's  Grandest  and  Merriest  Monarch  dis- 
ported himself.  And  I  found  out  what  made  the 
Merriest  Monarch  merry — so  far  as  I  could  see, 
there  was  not  a  bathroom  on  the  place.  He  was 
a  true  Frenchman — was  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

In  Berlin,  at  the  Imperial  Palace,  our  ex- 
perience was  somewhat  similar.  Led  by  a  guide 
we  walked  through  acres  of  state  drawing  rooms 
and  state  dining  rooms  and  state  reception 
rooms  and  state  picture  rooms;  and  we  were  told 
that  most  of  them — or,  at  least,  many  of  them 
— were  the  handiwork  of  the  late  Andreas 
Schltiter.  The  deceased  Schliiter  was  an  archi- 
[831 


EUROPE    REVISED 


tect,  a  painter,  a  sculptor,  a  woodcarver,  a  dec- 
orator, all  rolled  into  one.  He  was  the  George 
M.  Cohan  of  his  time;  and  I  think  he  also  played 
the  clarinet,  being  a  German. 

We  traversed  miles  of  these  Schliiter  master- 
pieces. Eventually  we  heard  sounds  of  martial 
music  without,  and  we  went  to  a  window  over- 
looking a  paved  courtyard;  and  from  that  point 
we  presently  beheld  a  fine  sight.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  courtyard  was  empty,  except  that  in 
the  center  stood  a  great  mass  of  bronze — by 
Schliiter,  I  think — a  heroic  equestrian  statue  of 
Saint  George  in  the  act  of  destroying  the  first 
adulterated  German  sausage.  But  in  a  minute 
the  garrison  turned  out;  and  then  in  through  an 
arched  gateway  filed  the  relief  guard  headed  by 
a  splendid  band,  with  bell-hung  standards 
jingling  at  the  head  of  the  column  and  young 
officers  stalking  along  as  stiff  as  ramrods,  and 
soldiers  marching  with  the  goosestep. 

In  the  German  army  the  private  who  raises 
his  knee  the  highest  and  sticks  his  shank  out 
ahead  of  him  the  straightest,  and  slams  his  foot 
down  the  hardest  and  jars  his  brain  the  pain- 
fulest,  is  promoted  to  be  a  corporal  and  given  a 
much  heavier  pair  of  shoes,  so  that  he  may 
make  more  noise  and  in  time  utterly  destroy  his 
reason.  The  goosestep  would  be  a  great  thing 
for  destroying  grasshoppers  or  cutworms  in  a 
plague  year  in  a  Kansas  wheatfield. 

At  the  Kaiser's  palace  we  witnessed  all  these 
sights,  but  we  did  not  run  across  any  bathrooms 
[84] 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


or  any  bathtubs.  However,  we  were  in  the  public 
end  of  the  establishment  and  I  regard  it  as 
probable  that  in  the  other  wing,  where  the 
Kaiser  lives  when  at  home,  there  are  plenty  of 
bathrooms.  I  did  not  investigate  personally. 
The  Kaiser  was  out  at  Potsdam  and  I  did  not 
care  to  call  in  his  absence. 

Bathrooms  are  plentiful  at  the  hotel  where  we 
stopped  at  Berlin.  I  had  rather  hoped  to  find 
the  bedroom  equipped  with  an  old-fashioned 
German  feather  bed.  I  had  heard  that  one 
scaled  the  side  of  a  German  bed  on  a  stepladder 
and  then  fell  headlong  into  its  smothering  folds 
like  a  gallant  fireman  invading  a  burning  rag 
warehouse;  but  this  hotel  happened  to  be  the 
best  hotel  that  I  ever  saw  outside  the  United 
States.  It  had  been  built  and  it  was  managed 
on  American  lines,  plus  German  domestic  serv- 
ice— which  made  an  incomparable  combination 
— and  it  was  furnished  with  modern  beds  and 
provided  with  modern  bathrooms. 

Probably  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  the 
Kaiser,  the  bathtowels  were  starched  until  the 
fringes  at  the  ends  bristled  up  stiffly  a-curl,  like 
the  ends  of  His  Imperial  Majesty's  equally  im- 
perial mustache.  Just  once — and  once  only— 
I  made  the  mistake  of  rubbing  myself  with  one 
of  those  towels  just  as  it  was.  I  should  have 
softened  it  first  by  a  hackling  process,  as  we 
used  to  hackle  the  hemp  in  Kentucky;  but  I 
did  not.  For  two  days  I  felt  like  an  etching. 
I  looked  something  like  one  too. 

[85J 


EUROPE    REVISED 


In  Vienna  we  could  not  get  a  bedroom  with  a 
bathroom  attached — they  did  not  seem  to  have 
any — but  we  were  told  there  was  a  bathroom 
just  across  the  hall  which  we  might  use  with 
the  utmost  freedom.  This  bathroom  was  a 
large,  long,  loftly,  marble-walled  vault.  It  was 
as  cold  as  a  tomb  and  as  gloomy  as  one,  and  very 
smelly.  Indeed  it  greatly  resembled  the  pictures 
I  have  seen  of  the  sepulcher  of  an  Egyptian  king 
— only  I  would  have  said  that  this  particular 
king  had  been  skimpily  embalmed  by  the  royal 
undertakers  in  the  first  place,  and  then  imper- 
fectly packed.  The  bathtub  was  long  and 
marked  with  scars,  and  it  looked  exactly  like  a 
rifled  mummy  case  with  the  lid  missing,  which 
added  greatly  to  the  prevalent  illusion. 

We  used  this  bathroom  ad  lib.:  but  when  I 
went  to  pay  the  bill  I  found  an  official  had  been 
keeping  tabs  on  us,  and  that  all  baths  taken 
had  been  charged  up  at  the  rate  of  sixty  cents 
apiece.  I  had  provided  my  own  soap  too!  For 
that  matter  the  traveler  provides  his  own  soap 
everywhere  in  Europe,  outside  of  England.  In 
some  parts  soap  is  regarded  as  an  edible  and  in 
some  as  a  vice  common  to  foreigners;  but  every- 
where except  in  the  northern  countries  it  is  a 
curio. 

So  in  Vienna  they  made  us  furnish  our  own 
soap  and  then  charged  us  more  for  a  bath  than 
they  did  for  a  meal.  Still,  by  their  standards,  I 
dare  say  they  were  right.  A  meal  is  a  necessity, 
but  a  bath  is  an  exotic  luxury;  and,  since  they 
[86] 


WHO  CAN  TELL  WHEN  THE  SAME  FATE  MAY  STRIKE  SOME  OTHER  HOUSEHOLD! 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


have  no  extensive  tariff  laws  in  Austria,  it  is 
but  fair  that  the  foreigner  should  pay  the  tax. 
I  know  I  paid  mine,  one  way  or  another. 

Speaking  of  bathing  reminds  me  of  washing; 
and  speaking  of  washing  reminds  me  of  an  ad- 
venture I  had  in  Vienna  in  connection  with  a 
white  waistcoat — or,  as  we  would  call  it  down 
where  I  was  raised,  a  dress  vest.  This  vest  had 
become  soiled  through  travel  and  wear  across 
Europe.  At  Vienna  I  intrusted  it  to  the  laundry 
along  with  certain  other  garments.  When  the 
bundle  came  back  my  vest  was  among  the 
missing. 

The  maid  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  compre- 
hend the  brand  of  German  I  use  in  casual 
conversation;  so,  through  an  interpreter,  I  ex- 
plained to  her  that  I  was  shy  one  white  vest. 
For  two  days  she  brought  all  sorts  of  vests  and 
submitted  them  to  me  on  approval — thin  ones 
and  thick  ones;  old  ones  and  new  ones;  slick 
ones  and  woolly  ones;  fringed  ones  and  frayed 
ones.  I  think  the  woman  had  a  private  vest 
mine  somewhere,  and  went  and  tapped  a  fresh 
vein  on  my  account  every  few  minutes;  but  it 
never  was  the  right  vest  she  brought  me. 

Finally  I  told  her  in  my  best  German,  mean- 
time accompanying  myself  with  appropriate  yet 
graceful  gestures,  that  she  need  not  concern  her- 
self further  with  the  affair;  she  could  just  let  the 
matter  drop  and  I  would  interview  the  manager 
and  put  in  a  claim  for  the  value  of  the  lost  gar- 
ment. She  looked  at  me  dazedly  a  moment  while 
[89] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


I  repeated  the  injunction  more  painstakingly 
than  before;  and,  at  that,  understanding  seemed 
to  break  down  the  barriers  of  her  reason  and  she 
said,  "Ja!  Ja!"  Then  she  nodded  emphatically 
several  times,  smiled  and  hurried  away  and  in 
twenty  minutes  was  back,  bringing  with  her  a 
begging  friar  of  some  monastic  order  or  other. 

I  would  take  it  as  a  personal  favor  if  some 
student  of  the  various  Teutonic  tongues  and 
jargons  would  inform  me  whether  there  is  any 
word  in  Viennese  for  white  vest  that  sounds  like 
Catholic  priest!  However,  we  prayed  together 
— that  brown  brother  and  I.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  prayed  for,  but  I  prayed  for  my  vest. 

I  never  got  it  though.  I  doubt  whether  my 
prayer  ever  reached  heaven — it  had  such  a  long 
way  to  go.  It  is  farther  from  Vienna  to  heaven 
than  from  any  other  place  in  the  world,  I  guess 
— unless  it  is  Paris.  That  vest  is  still  wandering 
about  the  damp-filled  corridors  of  that  hotel, 
mooing  in  a  plaintive  manner  for  its  mate — 
which  is  myself.  It  will  never  find  a  suitable 
adopted  parent.  It  was  especially  coopered  to 
my  form  by  an  expert  clothing  contractor,  and 
it  will  not  fit  anyone  else.  No;  it  will  wander 
on  and  on,  the  starchy  bulge  of  its  bosom  dimly 
phosphorescent  in  the  gloaming,  its  white  pearl 
buttons  glimmering  spectrally ;  and  after  a  while 
the  hotel  will  get  the  reputation  of  being  haunted 
by  the  ghost  of  a  flour  barrel,  and  will  have  a 
bad  name  and  lose  custom.  I  hope  so  anyway. 
It  looks  to  be  my  one  chance  of  getting  even 
[901 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


with  the  owner  for  penalizing  me  in  the  matter 
of  baths. 

From  Vienna  we  went  southward  into  the 
Tyrolese  Alps.  It  was  a  wonderful  ride — that 
ride  through  the  Semmering  and  on  down  to 
Northern  Italy.  Our  absurdly  short  little  loco- 
motive, drawing  our  absurdly  long  train,  went 
boring  in  and  out  of  a  wrinkly  shoulder-seam 
of  the  Tyrols  like  a  stubby  needle  going  through 
a  tuck.  I  think  in  thirty  miles  we  threaded 
thirty  tunnels;  after  that  I  was  practically  as- 
phyxiated and  lost  count. 

If  I  ever  take  that  journey  again  I  shall  wear 
a  smoke  helmet  and  be  comfortable.  But 
always  between  tunnels  there  were  views  to  be 
seen  that  would  have  revived  one  of  the  Seven 
Sleepers.  Now,  on  the  great-granddaddy-long- 
legs  of  all  the  spidery  trestles  that  ever  were 
built,  we  would  go  roaring  across  a  mighty  gorge, 
its  sides  clothed  with  perpendicular  gardens  and 
vineyards,  and  with  little  gray  towns  clustering 
under  the  ledges  on  its  sheer  walls  like  mud- 
daubers'  nests  beneath  an  eave.  Now,  perched 
on  a  ridgy  outcrop  of  rock  like  a  single  tooth  in 
a  snaggled  reptilian  jaw,  would  be  a  deserted 
tower,  making  a  fellow  think  of  the  good  old 
feudal  days  when  the  robber  barons  robbed  the 
traveler  instead  of  as  at  present,  when  the  job 
is  so  completely  attended  to  by  the  pirates  who 
weigh  and  register  baggage  in  these  parts. 

Then — whish,  roar,  eclipse,  darkness  and  sul- 
phureted  hydrogen! — we  would  dive  into  an- 
[91] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


other  tunnel  and  out  again — gasping — on  a 
breathtaking  panorama  of  mountains.  Some  of 
them  would  be  standing  up  against  the  sky  like 
the  jagged  top  of  a  half-finished  cutout  puzzle, 
and  some  would  be  buried  so  deeply  in  clouds 
that  only  their  peaked  blue  noses  showed  sharp 
above  the  featherbed  mattresses  of  mist  in  which 
they  were  snuggled,  as  befitted  mountains  of 
Teutonic  extraction.  And  nearly  every  eminence 
was  crowned  with  a  ruined  castle  or  a  hotel.  It 
was  easy  to  tell  a  hotel  from  a  ruin — it  had  a 
sign  over  the  door. 

At  one  of  those  hotels  I  met  up  with  a  home- 
sick American.  He  was  marooned  there  in  the 
rain,  waiting  for  the  skies  to  clear,  so  he  could 
do  some  mountain  climbing;  and  he  was  be- 
ginning to  get  moldy  from  the  prevalent  damp. 
By  now  the  study  of  bathing  habits  had  become 
an  obsession  with  me;  I  asked  him  whether  he 
had  encountered  any  bathtubs  about  the  place. 
He  said  a  bathtub  in  those  altitudes  was  as  rare 
as  a  chamois,  and  the  chamois  was  entirely 
extinct;  so  I  might  make  my  own  calculations. 
But  he  said  he  could  show  me  something  that 
was  even  a  greater  curiosity  than  a  bathtub, 
and  he  led  me  to  where  a  moonfaced  barometer 
hung  alongside  the  front  entrance  of  the  hotel. 

He  said  he  had  been  there  a  week  now  and 
had  about  lost  hope;  but  every  time  he  threat- 
ened to  move  on,  the  proprietor  would  take  him 
out  there  and  prove  that  they  were  bound  to 
have  clearing  weather  within  a  few  hours,  be- 
[921 


JACQUES,    THE    FORSAKEN 


cause  the  barometer  registered  fair.  At  that 
moment  streams  of  chilly  rain-water  were 
coursing  down  across  the  dial  of  the  barometer, 
but  it  registered  fair  even  then.  He  said — the 
American  did — that  it  was  the  most  stationary 
barometer  he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  most  reli- 
able— not  vacillating  and  given  to  moods,  like 
most  barometers,  but  fixed  and  unchangeable 
in  its  habits. 

I  matched  it,  though,  with  a  thermometer  I 
saw  in  the  early  spring  of  1913  at  a  coast  resort 
in  southern  California.  An  Eastern  tourist 
would  venture  out  on  the  windswept  and  drippy 
veranda,  of  a  morning  after  breakfast.  He  would 
think  he  was  cold.  He  would  have  many  of  the 
outward  indications  of  being  cold.  His  teeth 
would  be  chattering  like  a  Morse  sounder,  and 
inside  his  white-duck  pants  his  knees  would  be 
knocking  together  with  a  low,  muffled  sound. 
He  would  be  so  prickled  with  gooseflesh  that  he 
felt  like  Saint  Sebastian;  but  he  would  take  a 
look  at  the  thermometer — sixty-one  in  the  shade ! 
And  such  was  the  power  of  mercury  and  mind 
combined  over  matter  that  he  would  immedi- 
ately chirk  up  and  feel  warm. 

Not  a  hundred  yards  away,  at  a  drug  store, 
was  one  of  those  fickle-minded,  variable  ther- 
mometers, showing  a  temperature  that  ranged 
from  fifty-five  on  downward  to  forty;  but  the 
hotel  thermometer  stood  firm  at  sixty-one,  no 
matter  what  happened.  In  a  season  of  trying 
climatic  conditions  it  was  a  great  comfort — a 
[931 


EUROPE    REVISED 


boon  really — not  only  to  its  owner  but  to  his 
guests.  Speaking  personally,  however,  I  have 
no  need  to  consult  the  barometer's  face  to  see 
what  the  weather  is  going  to  do,  or  the  thermom- 
eter's tube  to  see  what  it  has  done.  No  person 
needs  to  do  so  who  is  favored  naturally  as  I  am. 
I  have  one  of  the  most  dependable  soft  corns 
in  the  business. 

Rome  is  full  of  baths — vast  ruined  ones 
erected  by  various  emperors  and  still  bearing 
their  names — such  as  Caracalla's  Baths  and 
Titus'  Baths,  and  so  on.  Evidently  the  ancient 
Romans  were  very  fond  of  taking  baths. 

Other  striking  dissimilarities  between  the  an- 
cient Romans  and  the  modern  Romans  are  per- 
ceptible at  a  glance. 


[94] 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  THE  SEVEN  A.  M.  TUT-TUT 
LEAVES  FOR  ANYWHERE 


BEING    desirous    of    tendering     sundry 
hints  and  observations  to  such  of  my 
fellow  countrymen  as  may  contemplate 
trips  abroad  I  shall,  with  their  kindly 
permission,  devote  this  chapter  to  setting  forth 
briefly   the   following   principles,   which   apply 
generally  to  railroad  travel  in  the  Old  World. 

First — On  the  Continent  all  trains  leave  at 
or  about  seven  A.  M.  and  reach  their  destination 
at  or  about  eleven  p.  M.  You  may  be  going  a 
long  distance  or  a  short  one — it  makes  no  differ- 
ence; you  leave  at  seven  and  you  arrive  at 
eleven.  The  few  exceptions  to  this  rule  are  of 
no  consequence  and  do  not  count. 

Second — A  trunk  is  the  most  costly  luxury 
known  to  European  travel.  If  I  could  sell  my 
small,  shrinking  and  flat-chested  steamer  trunk 
— original  value  in  New  York  eighteen  dollars 
and  seventy-five  cents — for  what  it  cost  me 
over  on  the  other  side  in  registration  fees, 
[951 


EUROPE    REVISED 


excess  charges,  mental  wear  and  tear,  freightage, 
forwarding  and  warehousing  bills,  tips,  bribes, 
indulgences,  and  acts  of  barratry  and  piracy,  I 
should  be  able  to  laugh  in  the  income  tax's  face. 
In  this  connection  I  would  suggest  to  the  tourist 
who  is  traveling  with  a  trunk  that  he  begin  his 
land  itinerary  in  Southern  Italy  and  work  north- 
ward; thereby,  through  the  gradual  shrinkage 
in  weight,  he  will  save  much  money  on  his 
trunk,  owing  to  the  pleasing  custom  among  the 
Italian  trainhands  of  prying  it  open  and  mak- 
ing a  judicious  selection  from  its  contents  for 
personal  use  and  for  gifts  to  friends  and  rela- 
tives. 

Third — For  the  sake  of  the  experience,  travel 
second  class  once;  after  that  travel  first  class — 
and  try  to  forget  the  experience.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  two  or  three  special-fare,  so-called 
de-luxe  trains,  first  class  over  there  is  about  what 
the  service  was  on  an  accommodation,  mixed- 
freight-and-passenger  train  in  Arkansas  imme- 
diately following  the  close  of  the  Civil  War. 

Fourth — When  buying  a  ticket  for  anywhere 
you  will  receive  a  cunning  little  booklet  full  of 
detachable  leaves,  the  whole  constituting  a  vol- 
ume about  the  size  and  thickness  of  one  of  those 
portfolios  of  views  that  came  into  popularity 
with  us  at  the  time  of  the  Philadelphia  Cen- 
tennial. Surrender  a  sheet  out  of  your  book  on 
demand  of  the  uniformed  official  who  will  come 
through  the  train  at  from  five  to  seven  minute 
intervals.  However,  he  will  collect  only  a  sheet 

;[96] 


A  GERMAN  CIGAR  KEEPS  OFF  ANT  DISEASE  EXCEPT  THE  CHOLERA: 
IT  GIVES  YOU  THE  CHOLERA 


WHEN     THE    SEVEN    A.M.    LEAVES 

every  other  trip;  on  the  alternate  trips  he  will 
merely  examine  your  ticket  with  the  air  of  never 
having  seen  it  before,  and  will  fold  it  over,  and 
perforate  it  with  his  punching  machine  and  re- 
turn it  to  you.  By  the  time  you  reach  your 
destination  nothing  will  be  left  but  the  cover; 
but  do  not  cast  this  carelessly  aside;  retain  it 
until  you  are  filing  out  of  the  terminal,  when 
it  will  be  taken  up  by  a  haughty  voluptuary 
with  whiskers.  If  you  have  not  got  it  you  can- 
not escape.  You  will  have  to  go  back  and  live 
on  the  train,  which  is,  indeed,  a  frightful  fate 
to  contemplate. 

Fifth — Reach  the  station  half  an  hour  before 
the  train  starts  and  claim  your  seat;  then  tip 
the  guard  liberally  to  keep  other  passengers  out 
of  your  compartment.  He  has  no  intention  of 
doing  so,  but  it  is  customary  for  Americans  to 
go  through  this  pleasing  formality — and  it  is 
expected  of  them. 

Sixth — Tip  everybody  on  the  train  who  wears 
a  uniform.  Be  not  afraid  of  hurting  some  one's 
feelings  by  offering  a  tip  to  the  wrong  person. 
There  will  not  be  any  wrong  person.  A  tip 
is  the  one  form  of  insult  that  anybody  in 
Europe  will  take. 

Seventh — Before  entering  the  train  inhale 
deeply  several  times.  This  will  be  your  last 
chance  of  getting  any  fresh  air  until  you  reach 
your  destination.  For  self-defense  against  the 
germ  life  prevailing  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
unventilated  compartments,  smoke  a  German 
[99] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


cigar.  A  German  cigar  keeps  off  any  disease 
except  the  cholera;  it  gives  you  the  cholera. 

Eighth — Do  not  linger  on  the  platform,  wait- 
ing for  the  locomotive  whistle  to  blow,  or  the 
bell  to  ring,  or  somebody  to  yell  "All  aboard!" 
If  you  do  this  you  will  probably  keep  on  linger- 
ing until  the  following  morning  at  seven.  As  a 
starting  signal  the  presiding  functionary  renders 
a  brief  solo  on  a  tiny  tin  trumpet.  One  puny 
warning  blast  from  this  instrument  sets  the 
whole  train  in  motion.  It  makes  you  think  of 
Gabriel  bringing  on  the  Day  of  Judgment  by 
tootling  on  a  penny  whistle.  Another  interest- 
ing point:  The  engine  does  not  say  Choo-choo 
as  in  our  country — it  says  Tut-tut. 

Ninth — In  England,  for  convenience  in  claim- 
ing your  baggage,  change  your  name  to  Xeno- 
phon  or  Zymology — there  are  always  about  the 
baggage  such  crowds  of  persons  who  have  the 
commoner  initials,  such  as  T  for  Thompson, 
J  for  Jones,  and  S  for  Smith.  When  next  I  go 
to  England  my  name  will  be  Zoroaster — Quintus 
P.  Zoroaster. 

Tenth — If  possible  avoid  patronizing  the  so- 
called  refreshment  wagons  or  dining  cars,  which 
are  expensive  and  uniformly  bad.  Live  off  the 
country.  Remember,  the  country  is  living  off 
you. 


[100] 


CHAPTER  VI 


EXCEPT  eighty  or  ninety  other  things  the 
British   Channel   was   the  most   disap- 
pointing thing  we  encountered  in   our 
travels.     All  my  reading  on  this  subject 
had  led  me  to  expect  that  the  Channel  would  be 
very   choppy   and  that  we  should  all  be  very 
seasick.     Nothing  of  the  sort  befell.    The  chan- 
nel may  have  been  suetty  but  it  was  not  choppy. 
The  steamer  that  ferried  us  over  ran  as  steadily 
as  a  clock  and  everybody  felt  as  fine  as  a  fiddle. 
A  friend  of  mine  whom  I  met  six  weeks  later 
in  Florence  had  better  luck.    He  crossed  on  an 
occasion  when  a  test  was  being  made  of  a  device 
for  preventing  seasickness.    A  Frenchman  was 
the  inventor  and  also  the  experimenter.     This 
Frenchman  had  spent  valuable  years  of  his  life 
perfecting  his  invention.     It  resembled  a  ham- 
mock swung  between  uprights.     The  supports 
were  to  be  bolted  to  the  deck  of  the  ship,  and 
when   the   Channel   began   to   misbehave   the 
[101] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


squeamish  passenger  would  climb  into  the 
hammock  and  fasten  himself  in;  and  then,  by 
a  system  of  reciprocating  oscillations,  the  ham- 
mock would  counteract  the  motion  of  the  ship 
and  the  occupant  would  rest  in  perfect  comfort 
no  matter  how  high  she  pitched  or  how  deep 
she  rolled.  At  least  such  was  the  theory  of  the 
inventor;  and  to  prove  it  he  offered  himself  as 
the  subject  for  the  first  actual  demonstration. 

The  result  was  unexpected.  The  sea  was  only 
moderately  rough;  but  that  patent  hammock 
bucked  like  a  kicking  bronco.  The  poor  French- 
man was  the  only  seasick  person  aboard — but 
he  was  sick  enough  for  the  whole  crowd.  He 
was  seasick  with  a  Gallic  abandon;  he  was  sea- 
sick both  ways  from  the  jack,  and  other  ways 
too.  He  was  strapped  down  so  he  could  not 
get  out,  which  added  no  little  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  occasion  for  everybody  except  himself. 
When  the  steamer  landed  the  captain  of  the 
boat  told  the  distressed  owner  that,  in  his 
opinion,  the  device  was  not  suited  for  steamer 
use.  He  advised  him  to  rent  it  to  a  riding 
academy. 

In  crossing  from  Dover  to  Calais  we  had 
thought  we  should  be  going  merely  from  one 
country  to  another;  we  found  we  had  gone  from 
one  world  to  another.  That  narrow  strip  of  un- 
easy water  does  not  separate  two  countries — it 
separates  two  planets. 

Gone  were  the  incredible  stiffness  and  the  in- 
curable honesty  of  the  race  that  belonged  over 

[  1021 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


yonder  on  those  white  chalk  cliffs  dimly  visible 
along  the  horizon.  Gone  were  the  phlegm  and 
stolidity  of  those  people  who  manifest  emotion 
only  on  the  occasions  when  they  stand  up  to 
sing  their  national  anthem : 

God  save  the  King! 
The  Queen  is  doing  well! 

Gone  were  the  green  fields  of  Sussex,  which 
looked  as  though  they  had  been  taken  in  every 
night  and  brushed  and  dry-cleaned  and  then 
put  down  again  in  the  morning.  Gone  were  the 
trees  that  Maxfield  Parrish  might  have  painted, 
so  vivid  were  they  in  their  burnished  green-and- 
yellow  coloring,  so  spectacular  in  their  grouping. 
Gone  was  the  five-franc  note  which  I  had  in- 
trusted to  a  sandwich  vender  on  the  railroad 
platform  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  would  come 
back  with  the  change.  After  that  clincher  there 
was  no  doubt  about  it — we  were  in  La  Belle 
France  all  right,  all  right! 

Everything  testified  to  the  change.  From 
the  pier  where  we  landed,  a  small  boy,  in  a  long 
black  tunic  belted  in  at  his  waist,  was  fishing; 
he  hooked  a  little  fingerling.  At  the  first  tenta- 
tive tug  on  his  line  he  set  up  a  shrill  clamor. 
At  that  there  came  running  a  fat,  kindly  looking 
old  priest  in  a  long  gown  and  a  shovel  hat;  and 
a  market  woman  came,  who  had  arms  like  a 
wrestler  and  skirts  that  stuck  out  like  a  ballet 
dancer's;  and  a  soldier  in  baggy  red  pants  came; 
and  thirty  or  forty  others  of  all  ages  and  sizes 
[103] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


came — and  they  gathered  about  that  small  boy 
and  gave  him  advice  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 
And  when  he  yanked  out  the  shining  little  silver 
fish  there  could  not  have  been  more  animation 
and  enthusiasm  and  excitement  if  he  had  landed 
a  full-grown  Presbyterian. 

They  were  still  congratulating  him  when  we 
pulled  out  and  went  tearing  along  on  our  way 
to  Paris,  scooting  through  quaint,  stone-walled 
cities,  each  one  dominated  by  its  crumbly  old 
cathedral;  sliding  through  open  country  where 
the  fields  were  all  diked  and  ditched  with  small 
canals  and  bordered  with  poplars  trimmed  s*. 
that  each  tree  looked  like  a  set  of  undertaker's 
whiskers  pointing  the  wrong  way. 

And  in  these  fields  were  peasants  in  sabots 
at  work,  looking  as  though  they  had  just 
stepped  out  of  one  of  Millet's  pictures.  Even 
the  haystacks  and  the  scarecrows  were  different. 
In  England  the  haystacks  had  been  geometrically 
correct  in  their  dimensions — so  square  and  firm 
and  exact  that  sections  might  be  sliced  off  them 
like  cheese,  and  doors  and  windows  might  be 
carved  in  them;  but  these  French  haystacks 
were  devil-may-care  haystacks  wearing  tufts  «n 
their  polls  like  headdresses.  The  windmills  had 
a  rakish  air;  and  the  scarecrows  in  the  truck 
gardens  were  debonair  and  cocky,  tilting  them- 
selves back  on  their  pins  the  better  to  enjoy  the 
view  and  fluttering  their  ragged  vestments  in  a 
most  jaunty  fashion.  The  land  though  looked 
poor — it  had  a  driven,  overworked  look  to  it. 
[  104] 


ALL  AGES  AND  SIZES  GATHERED  ABOUT  THAT  SMALL  BOY  AND  GAVE  HIM 
ADVICE  AT  THE  TOP  OF  THEIR  VOICES 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


Presently,  above  the  clacking  voice  of  our 
train,  we  heard  a  whining  roar  without;  and 
peering  forth  we  beheld  almost  over  our  heads 
a  big  monoplane  racing  with  us.  It  seemed  a 
mighty,  winged  Thunder  Lizard  that  had  come 
back  to  link  the  Age  of  Stone  with  the  Age  of 
Air.  On  second  thought  I  am  inclined  to  be- 
lieve the  Thunder  Lizard  did  not  flourish  in  the 
Stone  Age;  but  if  you  like  the  simile  as  much  as 
I  like  it  we  will  just  let  it  stand. 

Three  times  on  that  trip  we  saw  from  the 
windows  of  our  train  aviators  out  enjoying  the 
cool  of  the  evening  in  their  airships;  and  each 
time  the  natives  among  the  passengers  jammed 
into  the  passageway  that  flanked  the  compart- 
ments and  speculated  regarding  the  identity  of 
the  aviators  and  the  make  of  their  machines, 
and  argued  and  shrugged  their  shoulders  and 
quarreled  and  gesticulated.  The  whole  thing 
was  as  Frenchy  as  tripe  in  a  casserole. 

I  was  wrong,  though,  a  minute  ago  when  I 
said  there  remained  nothing  to  remind  us  of  the 
right  little,  tight  little  island  we  had  just  quit; 
for  we  had  two  Englishmen  in  our  compartment 
— fit  and  proper  representatives  of  a  certain 
breed  of  Englishman.  They  were  tall  and  lean, 
and  had  the  languid  eyes  and  the  long,  weary 
faces  and  the  yellow  buck  teeth  of  weary  cart- 
horses, and  they  each  wore  a  fixed  expression 
of  intense  gloom.  You  felt  sure  it  was  a  fixed 
expression  because  any  person  with  such  an 
expression  would  change  it  if  he  could  do  so  by 
[107] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


anything  short  of  a  surgical  operation.  And  it 
was  quite  evident  they  had  come  mentally 
prepared  to  disapprove  of  all  things  and  all 
people  in  a  foreign  clime. 

Silently,  but  none  the  less  forcibly,  they  re- 
sented the  circumstance  that  others  should  be 
sharing  the  same  compartment  with  them — or 
sharing  the  same  train,  either,  for  that  matter. 
The  compartment  was  full,  too,  which  made  the 
situation  all  the  more  intolerable:  an  elderly 
English  lady  with  a  placid  face  under  a  mid- 
Victorian  bonnet;  a  young,  pretty  woman  who 
was  either  English  or  American;  the  two  mem- 
bers of  my  party,  and  these  two  Englishmen. 

And  when,  just  as  the  train  was  drawing  out 
of  Calais,  they  discovered  that  the  best  two 
seats,  which  they  had  promptly  preempted,  be- 
longed to  others,  and  that  the  seats  for  which 
they  held  reservations  faced  rearward,  so  that 
they  must  ride  with  their  backs  to  the  locomo- 
tive— why,  that  irked  them  sore  and  more.  I 
imagine  they  wrote  a  letter  to  the  London 
Times  about  it  afterward. 

As  is  the  pleasing  habit  of  traveling  English- 
men, they  had  brought  with  them  everything 
portable  they  owned.  Each  one  had  four  or 
five  large  handbags,  and  a  carryall,  and  a  hat 
box,  and  his  tea-caddy,  and  his  plaid  blanket 
done  up  in  a  shawlstrap,  and  his  framed  picture 
of  the  Death  of  Nelson — and  all  the  rest  of  it; 
and  they  piled  those  things  in  the  luggage  racks 
until  both  the  racks  were  chock-full;  so  the  rest 
[  1081 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


of  us  had  to  hold  our  baggage  in  our  laps  or 
sit  on  it. 

One  of  them  was  facing  me  not  more  than 
five  or  six  feet  distant.  He  never  saw  me 
though.  He  just  gazed  steadily  through  me, 
studying  the  pattern  of  the  upholstery  on  the 
seat  behind  me;  and  I  could  tell  by  his  look 
that  he  did  not  care  for  the  upholstering — as 
very  naturally  he  would  not,  it  being  French. 

We  had  traveled  together  thus  for  some  hours 
when  one  of  them  began  to  cloud  up  for  a  sneeze. 
He  tried  to  sidetrack  it,  but  it  would  not  be 
sidetracked.  The  rest  of  us,  looking  on,  seemed 
to  hear  that  sneeze  coming  from  a  long  way  off. 
It  reminded  me  of  a  musical-sketch  team  giving 
an  imitation  of  a  brass  band  marching  down 
Main  Street  playing  the  Turkish  Patrol — dim 
and  faint  at  first,  you  know,  and  then  growing 
louder  and  stronger,  and  gathering  volume  until 
it  bursts  right  in  your  face. 

Fascinated,  we  watched  his  struggles.  Would 
he  master  it  or  would  it  master  him?  But  he 
lost,  and  it  was  probably  a  good  thing  he  did. 
If  he  had  swallowed  that  sneeze  it  would  have 
drowned  him.  His  nose  jibed  and  went  about; 
his  head  tilted  back  farther  and  farther;  his 
countenance  expressed  deep  agony,  and  then 
the  log  jam  at  the  bend  in  his  nose  went  out 
with  a  roar  and  he  let  loose  the  moistest,  loudest 
kerswoosh!  that  ever  was,  I  reckon. 

He  sneezed  eight  times.  The  first  sneeze  un- 
buttoned his  waistcoat,  the  second  unparted  his 
[  1091 


EUROPE    REVISED 


hair,  and  the  third  one  almost  pulled  his  shoes 
off;  and  after  that  they  grew  really  violent,  until 
the  last  sneeze  shifted  his  cargo  and  left  him 
with  a  list  to  port  and  his  lee  scuppers  awash. 
It  made  a  ruin  of  him — the  Prophet  Isaiah  could 
not  have  remained  dignified  wrestling  with  a 
sneezing  bee  of  those  dimensions — but  oh,  how 
it  did  gladden  the  rest  of  us  to  behold  him  at 
the  mercy  of  the  elements  and  to  note  what 
a  sodden,  waterlogged  wreck  they  made  of  him! 

It  was  not  long  after  that  before  we  had  an- 
other streak  of  luck.  The  train  jolted  over 
something  and  a  hat  fell  down  from  the  top- 
most pinnacle  of  the  mountain  of  luggage  above 
and  hit  his  friend  on  the  nose.  We  should  have 
felt  better  satisfied  if  it  had  been  a  coal  scuttle; 
but  it  was  a  reasonably  hard  and  heavy  hat 
and  it  hit  him  brim  first  on  the  tenderest  part 
of  his  nose  and  made  his  eyes  water,  and  we 
were  grateful  enough  for  small  blessings.  One 
should  not  expect  too  much  of  an  already  over- 
worked Providence. 

The  rest  of  us  were  still  warm  and  happy  in 
our  souls  when,  without  any  whistle-tooting  or 
bell-clanging  or  station-calling,  we  slid  silently, 
almost  surreptitiously,  into  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
at  Paris.  Neither  in  England  nor  on  the  main- 
land does  anyone  feel  called  on  to  notify  you 
that  you  have  reached  your  destination. 

It  is  like  the  old  formula  for  determining  the 
sex  of  a  pigeon — you  give  the  suspected  bird 
some  corn,  and  if  he  eats  it  he  is  a  he;  but  if  she 
[HO] 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


eats  it  she  is  a  she.  In  Europe  if  it  is  your  des- 
tination you  get  off,  and  if  it  is  not  your  destina- 
tion you  stay  on.  On  this  occasion  we  stayed 
on,  feeling  rather  forlorn  and  helpless,  until  we 
saw  that  everyone  else  had  piled  off.  We  gath- 
ered up  our  belongings  and  piled  off  too. 

By  that  time  all  the  available  porters  had 
been  engaged;  so  we  took  up  our  luggage  and 
walked.  We  walked  the  length  of  the  trainshed 
— and  then  we  stepped  right  into  the  recreation 
hall  of  the  State  Hospital  for  the  Criminal  In- 
sane, at  Matteawan,  New  York.  I  knew  the 
place  instantly,  though  the  decorations  had  been 
changed  since  I  was  there  last.  It  was  a  joy  to 
come  on  a  home  institution  so  far  from  home — 
joysome,  but  a  trifle  disconcerting  too,  because 
all  the  keepers  had  died  or  gone  on  strike  or 
something;  and  the  lunatics,  some  of  them  being 
in  uniform  and  some  in  civilian  dress,  were  leap- 
ing from  crag  to  crag,  uttering  maniacal  shrieks. 

Divers  lunatics,  who  had  been  away  and  were 
just  getting  back,  and  sundry  lunatics  who  were 
fixing  to  go  away  and  apparently  did  not  expect 
ever  to  get  back,  were  dashing  headlong  into  the 
arms  of  still  other  lunatics,  kissing  and  hugging 
them,  and  exchanging  farewells  and  sacre-bleuing 
with  them  in  the  maddest  fashion  imaginable. 
From  time  to  time  I  laid  violent  hands  on  a 
flying,  flitting  maniac  and  detained  him  against 
his  will,  and  asked  him  for  some  directions;  but 
the  persons  to  whom  I  spoke  could  not  under- 
stand me,  and  when  they  answered  I  could  not 
[1111 


EUROPE    REVISED 


understand  them;  so  we  did  not  make  much 
headway  by  that. 

I  could  not  get  out  of  that  asylum  until  I  had 
surrendered  the  covers  of  our  ticket  books  and 
claimed  our  baggage  and  put  it  through  the  cus- 
toms office.  I  knew  that;  the  trouble  was  I 
could  not  find  the  place  for  attending  to  these 
details.  On  a  chance  I  tried  a  door,  but  it  was 
distinctly  the  wrong  place;  and  an  elderly  female 
on  duty  there  got  me  out  by  employing  the  uni- 
versal language  known  of  all  peoples.  She  shook 
her  skirts  at  me  and  said  Shoo!  So  I  got  out, 
still  toting  five  or  six  bags  and  bundles  of  as- 
sorted sizes  and  shapes,  and  tried  all  the  other 
doors  in  sight. 

Finally,  by  a  process  of  elimination  and  de- 
duction, I  arrived  at  the  right  one.  To  make  it 
harder  for  me  they  had  put  it  around  a  corner 
in  an  elbow-shaped  wing  of  the  building  and 
had  taken  the  sign  off  the  door.  This  place  was 
full  of  porters  and  loud  cries.  To  be  on  the  safe 
side  I  tendered  retaining  fees  to  three  of  the 
porters;  and  thus  by  the  time  I  had  satisfied 
the  customs  officials  that  I  had  no  imported 
spirits  or  playing  cards  or  tobacco  or  soap,  or 
other  contraband  goods,  and  had  cleared  our 
baggage  and  started  for  the  cabstand,  we 
amounted  to  quite  a  stately  procession  and  at- 
tracted no  little  attention  as  we  passed  along. 
But  the  tips  I  had  to  hand  out  before  the  taxi 
started  would  stagger  the  human  imagination 
if  I  told  you  the  sum  total. 
[112] 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


There  are  few  finer  things  than  to  go  into 
Paris  for  the  first  time  on  a  warm,  bright  Satur- 
day night.  At  this  moment  I  can  think  of  but 
one  finer  thing — and  that  is  when,  wearied  of 
being  short-changed  and  bilked  and  double- 
charged,  and  held  up  for  tips  or  tribute  at  every 
step,  you  are  leaving  Paris  on  a  Saturday  night 
—or,  in  fact,  any  night. 

Those  first  impressions  of  the  life  on  the 
boulevards  are  going  to  stay  in  my  memory  a 
long,  long  time — the  people,  paired  off  at  the 
tables  of  the  sidewalk  cafes,  drinking  drinks  of 
all  colors;  a  little  shopgirl  wearing  her  new, 
cheap,  fetching  hat  in  such  a  way  as  to  center 
public  attention  on  her  head  and  divert  it  from 
her  feet,  which  were  shabby;  two  small  errand 
boys  in  white  aprons,  standing  right  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  whirling,  swirling  traffic,  in  im- 
minent peril  of  their  lives,  while  one  lighted 
his  cigarette  butt  from  the  cigarette  butt 
of  his  friend;  a  handful  of  roistering  soldiers, 
singing  as  they  swept  six  abreast  along  the  wide, 
rutty  sidewalk;  the  kiosks  for  advertising,  all 
thickly  plastered  over  with  posters,  half  of 
which  should  have  been  in  an  art  gallery  and 
the  other  half  in  a  garbage  barrel;  a  well-dressed 
pair,  kissing  in  the  full  glare  of  a  street  light; 
an  imitation  art  student,  got  up  to  look  like  an 
Apache,  and — no  doubt — plenty  of  real  Apaches 
got  up  to  look  like  human  beings;  a  silk-hatted 
gentleman,  stopping  with  perfect  courtesy  to 
help  a  bloused  workman  lift  a  baby-laden  baby 
[1131 


EUROPE    REVISED 


carriage  over  an  awkward  spot  in  the  curbing, 
and  the  workingman  returning  thanks  with  the 
same  perfect  courtesy ;  our  own  driver,  careening 
along  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  what  certain 
East  Side  friends  of  mine  would  call  the  Chariot 
Race  from  Ben  Hirsch;  and  a  stout  lady  of  the 
middle  class  sitting  under  a  cafe  awning  caress- 
ing her  pet  mole. 

To  the  Belgian  belongs  the  credit  of  domes- 
ticating the  formerly  ferocious  Belgian  hare, 
and  the  East  Indian  fakir  makes  a  friend  and 
companion  of  the  king  cobra;  but  it  remained 
for  those  ingenious  people,  the  Parisians,  to 
tame  the  mole,  which  other  races  have  always 
regarded  as  unbeautiful  and  unornamental,  and 
make  a  cunning  little  companion  of  it  and  spend 
hours  stroking  its  fleece.  This  particular  mole 
belonging  to  the  stout  middle-aged  lady  in  ques- 
tion was  one  of  the  largest  moles  and  one  of 
the  curliest  I  ever  saw.  It  was  on  the  side  of 
her  nose. 

You  see  a  good  deal  of  mole  culture  going  on 
here.  Later,  with  the  reader's  permission,  we 
shall  return  to  Paris  and  look  its  inhabitants 
over  at  more  length;  but  for  the  time  being  I 
think  it  well  for  us  to  be  on  our  travels.  In 
passing  I  would  merely  state  that  on  leaving 
a  Paris  hotel  you  will  tip  everybody  on  the 
premises. 

Oh,  yes — but  you  will! 

Let  us  move  southward.  Let  us  go  to  Sunny 
Italy,  which  is  called  Sunny  Italy  for  the  same 
[114] 


LA    BELLE    FRANCE 


reason  that  the  laughing  hyena  is  called  the 
laughing  hyena — not  because  he  laughs  so 
frequently,  but  because  he  laughs  so  seldom. 
Let  us  go  to  Rome,  the  Eternal  City,  sitting 
on  her  Seven  Hills,  remembering  as  we  go 
along  that  the  currency  has  changed  and  we 
no  longer  compute  sums  of  money  in  the  franc 
but  in  the  lira.  I  regret  the  latter  word  is  not 
pronounced  as  spelled — it  would  give  me  a 
chance  to  say  that  the  common  coin  of  Italy  is 
a  lira,  and  that  nearly  everybody  in  Rome  is 
one  also. 


[115] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THENCE  ON  AND  ON  TO  VERBOTEN- 
LAND 


AH,  Rome — the  Roma  of  the  Ancients 
—the  Mistress  of  the  Olden  World— 
the  Sacred  City!    Ah,  Rome,   if  only 
your   stones   could   speak!     It   is   cus- 
tomary for  the  tourist,  taking  his  cue  from  the 
guidebooks,  to  carry  on  like  this,  forgetting  in 
his  enthusiasm  that,  even  if  they  did  speak, 
they  would  doubtless  speak  Italian,  which  would 
leave  him  practically  where  he  was  before.  And 
so,  having  said  it  myself  according  to  formula, 
I  shall  proceed  to  state  the  actual  facts: 

If,  coming  forth  from  a  huge  and  dirty  ter- 
minal, you  emerge  on  a  splendid  plaza,  miserably 
paved,  and  see  a  priest,  a  soldier  and  a  beggar; 
a  beautiful  child  wearing  nothing  at  all  to  speak 
of,  and  a  hideous  old  woman  with  the  eyes  of  a 
Madonna  looking  out  of  a  tragic  mask  of  a  face; 
a  magnificent  fountain,  and  nobody  using  the 
water,  and  a  great,  overpowering  smell — yes, 
you  can  see  a  Roman  smell;  a  cart  mule  with 
[1161 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

ten  dollars'  worth  of  trappings  on  him,  and  a 
driver  with  ten  cents'  worth  on  him;  a  palace 
like  a  dream  of  stone,  entirely  surrounded  by 
nightmare  hovels;  a  new,  shiny,  modern  apart- 
ment house,  and  shouldering  up  against  it  a 
cankered  rubbish  heap  that  was  once  the  play- 
house of  a  Csesar,  its  walls  bearded  like  a  pard's 
face  with  tufted  laurel  and  splotched  like  a 
brandy  drunkard's  with  red  stains;  a  church 
that  is  a  dismal  ruin  without  and  a  glittering 
Aladdin's  Cave  of  gold  and  gems  and  porphyry 
and  onyx  within;  a  wide  and  handsome  avenue 
starting  from  one  festering  stew  of  slums  and 
ending  in  another  festering  stew  of  slums;  a 
grimed  and  broken  archway  opening  on  a  lovely 
hidden  courtyard  where  trees  are  green  and 
flowers  bloom,  and  in  the  center  there  stands  a 
statue  which  is  worth  its  weight  in  minted  silver 
and  which  carries  more  than  its  weight  in  dirt — 
if  in  addition  everybody  in  sight  is  smiling  and 
good-natured  and  happy,  and  is  trying  to  sell 
you  something  or  wheedle  you  out  of  something, 
or  pick  your  pocket  of  something — you  need  not, 
for  confirmatory  evidence,  seek  the  vast  dome 
of  St.  Peter's  rising  yonder  in  the  distance,  or 
the  green  tops  of  the  cedars  and  the  dusky 
clumps  of  olive  groves  on  the  hillsides  beyond 
— you  know  you  are  in  Rome. 

To   get   the   correct   likeness   of  Naples   we 
merely  reduce  the  priests  by  one-half  and  in- 
crease the  beggars  by  two-thirds;  we  richen  the 
color  masses,  thicken  the  dirt,  raise  the  smells 
[117] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


to  the  nth  degree,  and  set  half  the  populace  to 
singing.  We  establish  in  every  second  doorway 
a  mother  with  her  offspring  tucked  between  her 
knees  and  forcibly  held  there  while  the  mother 
searches  the  child's  head  for  a  flea;  anyhow,  it 
is  more  charitable  to  say  it  is  a  flea;  and  we 
add  a  special  touch  of  gorgeousness  to  the  street 
pictures. 

For  here  a  cart  is  a  glory  of  red  tires  and  blue 
shafts,  and  green  hubs  and  pink  body  and  pur- 
ple tailgate,  with  a  canopy  on  it  that  would 
have  suited  Sheba's  Queen;  and  the  mule  that 
draws  the  cart  is  caparisoned  in  brass  and 
plumage  like  a  circus  pony;  and  the  driver  wears 
a  broad  red  sash,  part  of  a  shirt,  and  half  of  a 
pair  of  pants — usually  the  front  half.  With  an 
outfit  such  as  that,  you  feel  he  should  be  peddling 
aurora  borealises,  or,  at  the  very  least,  rain- 
bows. It  is  a  distinct  shock  to  find  he  has  only 
chianti  or  cheeses  or  garbage  in  stock. 

In  Naples,  also,  there  is,  even  in  the  most 
prosaic  thing,  a  sight  to  gladden  your  eye  if 
you  but  hold  your  nose  while  you  look  on  it. 
On  the  stalls  of  the  truckvenders  the  cauliflowers 
and  the  cabbages  are  racked  up  with  an  artistic 
effect  we  could  scarcely  equal  if  we  had  roses 
and  orchids  to  work  with;  the  fishmonger's  cart 
is  a  study  in  still  life,  and  the  tripe  is  what 
artists  call  a  harmonious  interior. 

Nearly  all  the  hotels  in  Italy  are  converted 
palaces.  They  may  have  been  successes  as  pal- 
aces, but,  with  their  marble  floors  and  their 
[118] 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

high  ceilings,  and  their  dank,  dark  corridors, 
they  distinctly  fail  to  qualify  as  hotels.  I  should 
have  preferred  them  remaining  unsaved  and 
sinful.  I  likewise  observed  a  peculiarity  com- 
mon to  hotelkeepers  in  Italy — they  all  look  like 
cats.  The  proprietor  of  the  converted  palace 
where  we  stopped  in  Naples  was  the  very  image 
of  a  tomcat  we  used  to  own,  named  Plutarch's 
Lives,  which  was  half  Maltese  and  half  Mormon. 
He  was  a  cat  that  had  a  fine  carrying  voice — 
— though  better  adapted  for  concert  work  than 
parlor  singing — and  a  sweetheart  in  every  port. 
This  hotelkeeper  might  have  been  the  cat's  own 
brother  with  clothes  on — he  had  Flute's  roving 
eye  and  his  bristling  whiskers  and  his  sharp 
white  teeth,  and  Flute's  silent,  stealthy  tread, 
and  his  way  of  purring  softly  until  he  had  won 
your  confidence  and  then  sticking  his  claw  into 
you.  The  only  difference  was,  he  stuck  you 
with  a  bill  instead  of  a  claw. 

Another  interesting  idiosyncrasy  of  the  Italian 
hotelkeeper  is  that  he  invariably  swears  to  you 
his  town  is  the  only  honest  town  in  Italy,  but 
begs  you  to  beware  of  the  next  town  which,  he 
assures  you  with  his  hand  on  the  place  where 
his  heart  would  be  if  he  had  a  heart,  is  full  of 
thieves  and  liars  and  counterfeit  money  and 
pickpockets.  Half  of  what  he  tells  you  is  true 
—the  latter  half. 

The  tourist  agencies  issue  pamphlets  telling 
how  you  may  send  money  or  jewelry  by  regis- 
tered mail  in  Italy,  and  then  append  a  footnote 
[119] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


warning  you  against  sending  money  or  jewelry 
by  registered  mail  in  Italy.  Likewise  you  are 
constantly  being  advised  against  carrying  arti- 
cles of  value  in  your  trunk,  unless  it  is  most 
carefully  locked,  bolted  and  strapped.  It  is 
good  advice  too. 

An  American  I  met  on  the  boat  coming  home 
told  me  he  failed  to  take  such  precautions  while 
traveling  in  Italy;  and  he  said  that  when  he 
reached  the  Swiss  border  his  trunk  was  so  light 
he  had  to  sit  on  it  to  keep  it  from  blowing  off 
the  bus  on  the  way  from  the  station  to  the 
hotel,  and  so  empty  that  when  he  opened  it  at 
both  ends  the  draft  whistling  through  it  gave 
him  a  bad  cold.  However,  he  may  have  exag- 
gerated slightly. 

If  you  can  forget  that  you  are  paying  first- 
class  prices  for  fourth-rate  accommodations — 
forget  the  dirt  in  the  carriages  and  the  smells  in 
the  compartments — a  railroad  journey  through 
the  Italian  Peninsula  is  a  wonderful  experience. 
I  know  it  was  a  wonderful  experience  for  me. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  old  walled  towns  of 
stone  perched  precariously  on  the  sloping  with- 
ers of  razorbacked  mountains — towns  that  were 
old  when  the  Saviour  was  born;  or  the  ancient 
Roman  aqueducts,  all  pocked  and  pecked  with 
age,  looping  their  arches  across  the  land  for 
miles  on  miles;  or  the  fields,  scored  and  scarified 
by  three  thousand  years  of  unremitting,  relent- 
less, everlasting  agriculture;  or  the  wide-horned 
Italian  cattle  that  browsed  in  those  fields;  or 
[120] 


THE  SIGHT  OF  WOMEX  DOING  THE  BULK  OF  THE  HARD  AND 
DIRTY   FARMWORK  BECOMES  COMMON 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

yet  the  woman  who  darted  to  the  door  of  every 
signal-house  we  passed  and  came  to  attention, 
with  a  long  cudgel  held  flat  against  her  shoulder 
like  a  sentry's  musket. 

I  do  not  know  why  a  woman  should  exhibit 
an  overgrown  broomstick  when  an  Italian  train 
passes  a  flag  station,  any  more  than  I  know 
why,  when  a  squad  of  Paris  firemen  march  out 
of  the  engine  house  for  exercise,  they  should 
carry  carbines  and  knapsacks.  I  only  know 
that  these  things  are  done. 

In  Tuscany  the  vineyards  make  a  fine  show, 
for  the  vines  are  trained  to  grow  up  from  the 
ground  and  then  are  bound  into  streamers  and 
draped  from  one  fruit  tree  or  one  shade  tree  to 
another,  until  a  whole  hillside  becomes  one  long, 
confusing  vista  of  leafy  festoons.  The  thrifty 
owner  gets  the  benefit  of  his  grapes  and  of  his 
trees,  and  of  the  earth  below,  too,  for  there  he 
raises  vegetables  and  grains,  and  the  like.  Like 
everything  else  in  this  land,  the  system  is  an 
old  one.  I  judge  it  was  old  enough  to  be  hack- 
neyed when  Horace  wrote  of  it: 

Now  each  man,  basking  on  his  slopes, 
Weds  to  his  widowed  tree  the  vine; 
Then,  as  he  gayly  quaffs  his  wine. 

Salutes  thee  god  of  all  his  hopes. 

Classical  quotations  interspersed  here  and 
there  are  wonderful  helps  to  a  guide  book, 
don't  you  think? 

[123] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


In  rural  Italy  there  are  two  other  scenic  de- 
tails that  strike  the  American  as  being  most 
curious — one  is  the  amazing  prevalence  of  family 
washing,  and  the  other  is  the  amazing  scarcity 
of  birdlife.  To  himself  the  traveler  says: 

"What  becomes  of  all  this  intimate  and  per- 
sonal display  of  family  apparel  I  see  fluttering 
from  the  front  windows  of  every  house  in  this 
country?  Everybody  is  forever  washing  clothes 
but  nobody  ever  wears  it  after  it  is  washed.  And 
what  has  become  of  all  the  birds?" 

For  the  first  puzzle  there  is  no  key,  but  the 
traveler  gets  the  answer  to  the  other  when  he 
passes  a  meat-dealer's  shop  in  the  town  and 
sees  spread  on  the  stalls  heaps  of  pitiably 
small  starlings  and  sparrows  and  finches  ex- 
posed for  sale.  An  Italian  will  cook  and  eat 
anything  he  can  kill  that  has  wings  on  it,  from 
a  cassowary  ta  a  katydid. 

Thinking  this  barbarity  over,  I  started  to  get 
indignant;  but  just  in  time  I  remembered  what 
we  ourselves  have  done  to  decimate  the  canvas- 
back  duck,  and  the  wild  pigeon  and  the  ricebird 
and  the  red-worsted  pulse-warmer,  and  other 
pleasing  wild  creatures  of  the  earlier  days  in 
America,  now  practically  or  wholly  extinct. 
And  I  felt  that  before  I  could  attend  to  the 
tomtits  in  my  Italian  brother's  eye  I  must 
needs  pluck  a  few  buffaloes  out  of  my  own;  so 
I  decided,  in  view  of  those  things,  to  collect 
myself  and  endeavor  to  remain  perfectly  calm. 

We  came  into  Venice  at  the  customary  hour 
[  1241 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

— to  wit,  eleven  P.  M. — and  had  a  real  treat  as 
our  train  left  the  mainland  and  went  gliding 
far  out,  seemingly  right  through  the  placid 
Adriatic,  to  where  the  beaded  lights  of  Venice 
showed  like  a  necklace  about  the  withered  throat 
of  a  long-abandoned  bride,  waiting  in  the  rags 
of  her  moldered  wedding  finery  for  a  bridegroom 
who  comes  not. 

Better  even  than  this  was  the  journey  by 
gondola  from  the  terminal  through  narrow  canals 
and  under  stone  bridges  where  the  water  lapped 
with  little  mouthing  tongues  at  the  walls,  and 
the  tall,  gloomy  buildings  almost  met  overhead, 
so  that  only  a  tiny  strip  of  star-buttoned  sky 
showed  between.  And  from  dark  windows  high 
up  came  the  tinkle  of  guitars  and  the  sound  of 
song  pouring  from  throats  of  silver.  And  so  we 
came  to  our  hotel,  which  was  another  converted 
palace;  but  baptism  is  not  regarded  as  essential 
to  salvation  in  these  parts. 

On  the  whole,  Venice  did  not  impress  me  as 
it  has  impressed  certain  other  travelers.  You 
see,  I  was  born  and  raised  in  one  of  those  Ohio 
Valley  towns  where  the  river  gets  emotional 
and  temperamental  every  year  or  two.  In  my 
youth  I  had  passed  through  several  of  these 
visitations,  when  the  family  would  take  the 
family  plate  and  the  family  cow,  and  other 
treasures,  and  retire  to  the  attic  floor  to  wait  for 
the  spring  rise  to  abate;  and  when  really  the 
most  annoying  phase  of  the  situation  for  a  house- 
keeper, sitting  on  the  top  landing  of  his  stair- 
[125] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


case  watching  the  yellow  wavelets  lap  inch  by 
inch  over  the  keys  of  the  piano,  and  inch  by  inch 
climb  up  the  new  dining-room  wallpaper,  was 
to  hear  a  knocking  at  a  front  window  upstairs 
and  go  to  answer  it  and  find  that  Moscoe  Bur- 
nett had  come  in  a  John-boat  to  collect  the  water 
tax. 

The  Grand  Canal  did  not  stir  me  as  it  has 
stirred  some — so  far  back  as  '84  I  could  remem- 
ber when  Jefferson  Street  at  home  looked  al- 
most exactly  like  that. 

Going  through  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  between 
Vienna  and  Venice,  I  met  two  old  and  dear 
friends  in  their  native  haunts — the  plush  hat 
and  the  hot  dog.  When  such  a  thing  as  this 
happens  away  over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
globe  it  helps  us  to  realize  how  small  a  place  this 
world  is  after  all,  and  how  closely  all  peoples  are 
knitted  together  in  common  bonds  of  love  and 
affection.  The  hot  dog,  as  found  here,  is  just 
as  we  know  him  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  our  own  land — a  dropsical  Wiener- 
wurst entombed  in  the  depths  of  a  rye-bread 
sandwich,  with  a  dab  of  horse-radish  above  him 
to  mark  his  grave;  price,  creation  over,  five 
cents  the  copy. 

The  woolly  plush  hat  shows  no  change  either, 
except  that  if  anything  it  is  slightly  woollier  in 
the  Alps  than  among  us.  As  transplanted,  the 
dinky  little  bow  at  the  back  is  an  affectation 
purely — but  in  these  parts  it  is  logical  and 
serves  a  practical  and  a  utilitarian  purpose,  be- 
[126] 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

cause  the  mountain  byways  twist  and  turn 
and  double,  and  the  local  beverages  are  potent 
brews;  and  the  weary  mountaineer,  homeward- 
bound  afoot  at  the  close  of  a  market  day,  may 
by  the  simple  expedient  of  reaching  up  and 
fingering  his  bow  tell  instantly  whether  he  is 
going  or  coming. 

This  is  also  a  great  country  for  churches. 
Every  group  of  chalets  that  calls  itself  a  village 
has  at  least  one  long-spired  gray  church  in  its 
midst,  and  frequently  more  than  one.  In  one 
sweep  of  hillside  view  from  our  car  window  I 
counted  seven  church  steeples.  I  do  not  think 
it  was  a  particularly  good  day  for  churches 
either;  I  wished  I  might  have  passed  through 
on  a  Sunday,  when  they  would  naturally  be 
thicker. 

Along  this  stretch  of  railroad  the  mountaineers 
come  to  the  stations  wearing  the  distinctive 
costume  of  their  own  craggy  and  slabsided  hills 
—the  curling  pheasant  feather  in  the  hatbrim; 
the  tight-fitting  knee-breeches;  the  gaudy  stock- 
ings; and  the  broad-suspendered  belt  with  rows 
of  huge  brass  buttons  spangling  it  up  and  down 
and  crosswise.  Such  is  your  pleasure  at  finding 
these  quaint  habiliments  still  in  use  amid  set- 
tings so  picturesque  that  you  buy  freely  of  the 
fancy-dressed  individual's  wares — for  he  always 
has  something  to  sell. 

And  then  as  your  train  pulls  out,  if  by  main 
force  and  awkwardness  you  jam  a  window  open, 
as  I  did,  and  cast  your  eyes  rearward  for  a  fare- 
[127] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


well  peek,  as  I  did,  you  will  behold  him,  as  I 
did,  pulling  off  his  parade  clothes  and  climbing 
into  the  blue  overalls  and  the  jean  jumpers  of 
prosaic  civilization,  to  wait  until  the  next  car- 
load lot  of  foreign  tourists  rolls  in.  The  Eu- 
ropean peasant  is  indeed  a  simple,  guileless 
creature — if  you  are  careless  about  how  you  talk. 

In  this  district  and  on  beyond,  the  sight  of 
women  doing  the  bulk  of  the  hard  and  dirty 
farm  work  becomes  common.  You  see  women 
plowing;  women  hoeing;  women  carrying  in- 
credibly huge  bundles  of  fagots  and  fodder  on 
their  heads;  women  hauling  heavy  carts,  some- 
times with  a  straining,  panting  dog  for  a  team- 
mate, sometimes  unaccompanied  except  by  a 
stalwart  father  or  husband,  or  brother  or  son, 
who,  puffing  a  china-bowled  pipe,  walks  along- 
side to  see  that  the  poor  human  draft-animals 
do  not  shirk  or  balk,  or  shy  over  the  traces. 

To  one  coming  from  a  land  where  no  decent 
man  raises  his  hand  against  a  woman — except,  of 
course,  in  self-defense — this  is  indeed  a  startling 
sight  to  see;  but  worse  is  in  store  for  him  when 
he  reaches  Bohemia,  on  the  upper  edge  of  the 
Austrian  Empire.  In  Bohemia,  if  there  is  a 
particularly  nasty  and  laborious  job  to  be  done, 
such  as  spading  up  manure  in  the  rain  or  grub- 
bing sugar-beets  out  of  the  half-frozen  earth, 
they  wish  it  on  the  dear  old  grandmother.  She 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  grandmother — or 
old  enough  for  one  anyway.  Perhaps,  though, 
it  is  the  life  they  lead,  and  not  the  years,  that 
[128] 


THE  MOST  INGENIOUS  AND  WIDEAWAKE  OF  ALL  THE  EARLIER  RULERS  OF 
GERMANY,  KING  VERBOTEN 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

bends  the  backs  of  these  women  amd  thickens 
their  waists  and  mats  their  hair  and  turns  their 
feet  into  clods  and  their  hands  into  swollen,  red 
monstrosities. 

Surely  the  Walrus,  in  Alice  in  Wonderland, 
had  Germany  in  mind  when  he  said  the  time 
had  come  to  speak  of  cabbages  and  kings — be- 
cause Germany  certainly  does  lead  the  known 
world  in  those  two  commodities.  Everywhere  in 
Germany  you  see  them — the  cabbages  by  the  mil- 
lions and  the  billions,  growing  rank  and  purple 
in  the  fields  and  giving  promise  of  the  time  when 
they  will  change  from  vegetable  to  vine  and  be- 
come the  fragrant  and  luscious  trailing  sauer- 
kraut; but  the  kings,  in  stone  or  bronze,  stand 
up  in  the  marketplace  or  the  public  square,  or 
on  the  bridge  abutment,  or  just  back  of  the 
brewery,  in  every  German  city  and  town  along 
the  route. 

By  these  surface  indications  alone  the  most 
inexperienced  traveler  would  know  he  had 
reached  Germany,  even  without  the  halt  at  the 
custom  house  on  the  border;  or  the  crossing 
watchman  in  trim  uniform  jumping  to  attention 
at  every  roadcrossing;  or  the  beautifully  up- 
holstered, handswept  state  forests;  or  the 
hedges  of  willow  trees  along  the  brooks,  stick- 
ing up  their  stubby,  twiggy  heads  like  so  many 
disreputable  hearth-brooms;  or  the  young  grain 
stretching  in  straight  rows  crosswise  of  the 
weedless  fields  and  looking,  at  a  distance,  like 
fair  green-printed  lines  evenly  spaced  on  a  wide 
[131] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


brown  page.  Also,  one  observes  everywhere 
surviving  traces  that  are  unmistakable  of  the 
reign  of  that  most  ingenious  and  wideawake  of 
all  the  earlier  rulers  of  Germany,  King  Verboten 
the  Great. 

In  connection  with  the  life  and  works  of  this 
distinguished  ruler  is  told  an  interesting  legend 
well  worthy  of  being  repeated  here.  It  would 
seem  that  King  Verboten  was  the  first  crowned 
head  of  Europe  to  learn  the  value  of  keeping 
his  name  constantly  before  the  reading  public. 
Rameses  the  Third  of  Egypt — that  enterprising 
old  constant  advertiser  who  swiped  the  pyra- 
mids of  all  his  predecessors  and  had  his  own 
name  engraved  thereon — had  been  dead  for 
many  centuries  and  was  forgotten  when  Ver- 
boten mounted  the  throne,  and  our  own  Teddy 
Roosevelt  would  not  be  born  for  many  centuries 
yet  to  come;  so  the  idea  must  have  occurred 
to  King  Verboten  spontaneously,  as  it  were. 
Therefore  he  took  counsel  with  himself,  saying: 

"I  shall  now  erect  statues  to  myself.  Dynas- 
ties change  and  wars  rage,  and  folks  grow  fickle 
and  tear  down  statues.  None  of  that  for  your 
Uncle  Dudley  K.  Verboten!  No;  this  is  what 
I  shall  do:  On  every  available  site  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  this  my  realm  I  shall  stick  up 
my  name;  and,  wherever  possible,  near  to  it  I 
shall  engrave  or  paint  the  names  of  my  two 
favorite  sons,  Ausgang  and  Eingang — to  the  end 
that,  come  what  may,  we  shall  never  be  for- 
gotten in  the  land  of  our  birth." 
[132] 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

And  then  he  went  and  did  it;  and  it  was  a 
thorough  job — so  thorough  a  job  that,  to  this 
good  year  of  our  Lord  you  may  still  see  the 
name  of  that  wise  king  everywhere  displayed  in 
Germany — on  railroad  stations  and  in  railroad 
trains;  on  castle  walls  and  dead  walls  and  brewery 
walls,  and  the  back  fence  of  the  Young  Ladies' 
High  School.  And  nearly  always,  too,  you  will 
find  hard  by,  over  doors  and  passageways,  the 
names  of  his  two  sons,  each  accompanied  or 
underscored  by  the  heraldic  emblem  of  their 
house — a  barbed  and  feathered  arrow  pointing 
horizontally. 

And  so  it  was  that  King  Verboten  lived 
happily  ever  after  and  in  the  fullness  of  time 
died  peacefully  in  his  bed,  surrounded  by  his 
wives,  his  children  and  his  courtiers;  and  all  of 
them  sorrowed  greatly  and  wept,  but  the  royal 
signpainter  sorrowed  most  of  all. 

I  know  that  certain  persons  will  contest  the 
authenticity  of  this  passage  of  history;  they  will 
claim  Verboten  means  in  our  tongue  Forbidden, 
and  that  Ausgang  means  Outgoing,  and  Eingang 
means  Incoming — or,  in  other  words,  Exit  and 
Entrance;  but  surely  this  could  not  be  so.  If 
so  many  things  were  forbidden,  a  man  in  Ger- 
many would  be  privileged  only  to  die — and 
probably  not  that,  unless  he  died  according  to 
a  given  formula;  and  certainly  no  human  being 
with  the  possible  exception  of  the  comedian  who 
used  to  work  the  revolving-door  trick  in  Han- 
Ion's  Fantasma,  could  go  out  of  and  come  into 
[133] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


a  place  so  often  without  getting  dizzy  in  the 
head.  No — the  legend  stands  as  stated. 

Even  as  it  is,  there  are  rules  enough  in  Ger- 
many, rules  to  regulate  all  things  and  all  persons. 
At  first,  to  the  stranger,  this  seems  an  irksome 
arrangement — this  posting  of  rules  and  orders 
and  directions  and  warnings  everywhere — but 
he  finds  that  everyone,  be  he  high  or  low,  must 
obey  or  go  to  jail;  there  are  no  exceptions  and 
no  evasions;  so  that  what  is  a  duty  on  all  is  a 
burden  on  none. 

Take  the  trains,  for  example.  Pretty  much 
all  over  the  Continent  the  railroads  are  state- 
owned  and  state-run,  but  only  in  Germany  are 
they  properly  run.  True,  there  are  so  many 
uniformed  officials  aboard  a  German  train  that 
frequently  there  is  barely  room  for  the  paying 
travelers  to  squeeze  in;  but  the  cars  are  sanitary 
and  the  schedule  is  accurately  maintained,  and 
the  attendants  are  honest  and  polite  and  cleanly 
of  person — wherein  lies  another  point  of  dis- 
similarity between  them  and  those  scurvy, 
musty,  fusty  brigands  who  are  found  manag- 
ing and  operating  trains  in  certain  nearby 
countries. 

I  remember  a  cup  of  coffee  I  had  while  going 
from  Paris  to  Berlin.  It  was  made  expressly 
for  me  by  an  invalided  commander-in-chief  of 
the  artillery  corps  of  the  imperial  army — so  I 
judged  him  to  be  by  his  costume,  air  and  general 
deportment — who  was  in  charge  of  our  carriage 
and  also  of  the  small  kitchen  at  the  far  end  of  it. 
[134] 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

He  came  into  our  compartment  and  bowed  and 
clicked  his  heels  together  and  saluted,  and 
wanted  to  know  whether  I  would  take  coffee. 
Recklessly  I  said  I  would.  He  filled  in  several 
blanks  of  a  printed  form,  and  went  and  cooked 
the  coffee  and  brought  it  back,  pausing  at  in- 
tervals as  he  came  along  to  fill  in  other  blanks. 
Would  I  take  cream  in  my  coffee?  I  would;  so 
he  filled  in  a  couple  of  blanks.  Would  I  take 
sugar?  I  said  I  would  take  two  lumps.  He  put 
in  two  lumps  and  filled  in  another  blank. 

I  really  prefer  my  coffee  with  three  lumps  in 
it;  but  I  noticed  that  his  printed  form  was  now 
completely  filled  in,  and  I  hated  to  call  for  a 
third  lump  and  put  him  to  the  trouble  of  starting 
his  literary  labors  all  over  again.  Besides,  by 
that  time  the  coffee  would,  be  cold.  So  I  took 
it  as  it  was — with  two  lumps  only — and  it  was 
pretty  fair  coffee  for  European  coffee.  It  tasted 
slightly  of  the  red  tape  and  the  chicory,  but  it 
was  neatly  prepared  and  promptly  served. 

And  so,  over  historic  streams  no  larger  than 
creeks  would  be  in  America,  and  by  castles  and 
cabbages  and  kings  and  cows,  we  came  to  Ber- 
lin; and  after  some  of  the  other  Continental 
cities  Berlin  seemed  a  mighty  restful  spot  to  be 
in,  and  a  good  one  to  tarry  in  awhile.  It  has 
few  historical  associations,  has  Berlin,  but  we 
were  loaded  to  the  gills  with  historical  associa- 
tions by  now.  It  does  not  excel  greatly  in  Old 
Masters,  but  we  had  already  gazed  with  a 
languid  eye  upon  several  million  Old  Masters 
[135] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  all  ages,  including  many  very  young  ones. 
It  has  no  ancient  monuments  and  tombs  either, 
which  is  a  blessing.  Most  of  the  statuary 
in  Berlin  is  new  and  shiny  and  provided  with 
all  the  modern  conveniences — the  present  kaiser 
attended  competently  to  that  detail.  Wherever, 
in  his  capital,  there  was  space  for  a  statue  he 
has  stuck  up  one  in  memory  of  a  member  of  his 
own  dynasty,  beginning  with  a  statue  apiece  for 
such  earlier  rulers  as  Otho  the  Oboe-Player,  and 
Joachim,  surnamed  the  Half-a-Ton — let  some 
one  correct  me  if  I  have  the  names  wrong — and 
finishing  up  with  forty  or  fifty  for  himself.  That 
is,  there  were  forty  or  fifty  of  him  when  I  was 
there.  There  are  probably  more  now. 

In  its  essentials  Berlin  suggests  a  progressive 
American  city,  with  Teutonic  trimmings.  Con- 
ceive a  bit  of  New  York,  a  good  deal  of  Chicago, 
a  scrap  of  Denver,  a  slice  of  Hoboken,  and  a 
whole  lot  of  Milwaukee;  conceive  this  combina- 
tion as  being  scoured  every  day  until  it  shines; 
conceive  it  as  beautifully  though  somewhat  pro- 
fusely governed,  and  laid  out  with  magnificent 
drives,  and  dotted  with  big,  handsome  public 
buildings,  and  full  of  reasonably  honest  and 
more  than  reasonably  kindly  people — and  you 
have  Berlin. 

It  was  in  Berlin  that  I  picked  up  the  most 
unique  art  treasure  I  found  anywhere  on  my 
travels — a  picture  of  the  composer  Verdi  that 
looked  exactly  like  Uncle  Joe  Cannon,  without 
the  cigar;  whereat  Uncle  Joe  Cannon  does  not 
[136] 


THENCE    ON    TO    VERBOTENLAND 

look  a  thing  in  the  world  like  Verdi,  and  prob- 
ably wouldn't  if  he  could. 

I  have  always  regretted  that  our  route  through 
the  German  Empire  took  us  across  the  land  of 
the  Hessians  after  dark,  for  I  wanted  to  see 
those  people.  You  will  recollect  that  when 
George  the  Third,  of  England,  first  put  into 
actual  use  the  doctrine  of  Hands  Across  the  Sea 
he  used  the  Hessians. 

They  were  hired  hands. 


[137] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  TALE  OF  A  STRING-BEAN 


IT  was  at  a  small  dinner  party  in  a  home 
out  in  Passy — which  is  to  Paris  what  Flat- 
bush  is  to  Brooklyn — that  the  event  here- 
inafter set  forth  came  to  pass.     Our  host 
was  an  American  who  had  lived  abroad  a  good 
many  years;  and  his  wife,  our  hostess,  was  a 
French  woman  as  charming  as  she  was  pretty 
and  as  pretty  as  she  could  be. 

The  dinner  was  going  along  famously.  We 
had  hors-d'ceuvres,  the  soup  and  the  hare — all 
very  tasty  to  look  on  and  very  soothing  to  the 
palate.  Then  came  the  fowl,  roasted,  of  course — 
the  roast  fowl  is  the  national  bird  of  France — and 
along  with  the  fowl  something  exceedingly  appe- 
tizing in  the  way  of  hearts  of  lettuce  garnished 
with  breasts  of  hothouse  tomatoes  cut  on  the  bias. 
When  we  were  through  with  this  the  servants 
removed  the  debris  and  brought  us  hot  plates. 
Then,  with  the  air  of  one  conferring  a  real  treat 
on  us,  the  butler  bore  around  a  tureen  arrange- 
ment full  of  smoking-hot  string-beans.  When 
[138] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

it  came  my  turn  I  helped  myself — copiously — 
and  waited  for  what  was  to  go  with  the  leans. 
A  pause  ensued — to  my  imagination  an  embar- 
rassed pause.  Seeking  a  cue  I  glanced  down  the 
table  and  back  again*'  Therfe  did  not  appear  to 
be  anything  to  go  with  the  beans.  The  butler 
was  standing  at  ease  behind  his  master's  chair — 
ease  for  a  butler,  I  mean, — and  the  other  guests, 
it  seemed  to  me,  were  waiting  and  watching. 
To  myself  I  said: 

"Well,  sir,  that  butler  certainly  has  made  a 
J.  Henry  Fox  Pass  of  himself  this  trip!  Here, 
just  when  this  dinner  was  getting  to  be  one  of 
the  notable  successes  of  the  present  century,  he 
has  to  go  and  derange  the  whole  running  sched- 
ule by  serving  the  salad  when  he  should  have 
served  the  beans,  and  the  beans  when  he  should 
have  served  the  salad.  It's  a  sickening  situa- 
tion; but  if  I  can  save  it  I'll  do  it.  I'll  be  well 
bred  if  it  takes  a  leg!" 

So,  wearing  the  manner  of  one  who  has  been 
accustomed  all  his  life  to  finishing  off  his  dinner 
with  a  mess  of  string-beans,  Lused  my  putting- 
iron  ;  and  from  the  edge  of  the  fair  green  I  holed 
out  in  three.  My  last  stroke  was  a  dandy,  if 
I  do  say  it  myself.  The  others  were  game  too 
—I  could  see  that.  They  were  eating  beans  as 
though  beans  were  particularly  what  they  had 
come  for.  Out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  glanced 
at  our  hostess,  sitting  next  to  me  on  the  left. 
She  was  placid,  calm,  perfectly  easy.  Again 
addressing  myself  mentally  I  said: 
[139] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


"There's  a  thoroughbred  for  you!  You  take 
a  woman  who  got  prosperous  suddenly  and  is 
still  acutely  suffering  from  nervous  culture,  and 
if  such  a  shipwreck  had  occurred  at  her  dinner 
table  she'd  be  utterly  prostrated  by  now — she'd 
be  down  and  out — and  we'd  all  be  standing 
back  to  give  her  air;  but  when  they're  born  in 
the  purple  it  shows  in  these  big  emergencies. 
Look  at  this  woman  now — not  a  ripple  on  the 
surface — balmy  as  a  summer  evening!  But  in 
about  one  hour  from  now,  Central  European 
time,  I  can  see  her  accepting  that  fool  but- 
ler's resignation  before  he's  had  time  to  offer 
it!" 

After  the  beans  had  been  cleared  off  the  right- 
of-way  we  had  the  dessert  and  the  cheese  and 
the  coffee  and  the  rest  of  it.  And,  as  we  used 
to  say  in  the  society  column  down  home  when 
the  wife  of  the  largest  advertiser  was  entertain- 
ing, "at  a  suitable  hour  those  present  dispersed 
to  their  homes,  one  and  all  voting  the  affair  to 
have  been  one  of  the  most  enjoyable  occasions 
among  like  events  of  the  season."  We  all  knew 
our  manners — we  had  proved  that. 

Personally  I  was  very  proud  of  myself  for 
having  carried  the  thing  off  so  well;  but  after 
I  had  survived  a  few  tables  d'hote  in  France  and 
a  few  more  in  Austria  and  a  great  many  in  Italy, 
where  they  do  not  have  anything  at  the  hotels 
except  tables  d'hote,  I  did  not  feel  quite  so 
proud.  For  at  this  writing  in  those  parts  the 
slender,  sylphlike  string-bean  is  not  playing  a 
[140] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

minor  part,  as  with  us.  He  has  the  best  spot 
on  the  evening  bill — he  is  a  headliner.  So  is 
the  cauliflower;  so  is  the  Brussels  sprout;  so  is 
any  vegetable  whose  function  among  our  own 
people  is  largely  scenic. 

Therefore  I  treasured  the  memory  of  this  in- 
cident and  brought  it  back  with  me;  and  I  tell 
it  here  at  some  length  of  detail  because  I  know 
how  grateful  my  countrywomen  will  be  to  get 
hold  of  it — I  know  how  grateful  they  always  are 
when  they  learn  about  a  new  gastronomical 
wrinkle.  Mind  you,  I  am  not  saying  that  the 
notion  is  an  absolute  novelty  here.  For  all  I 
know  to  the  contrary,  prominent  hostesses  along 
the  Gold  Coast  of  the  United  States — Bar  Har- 
bor to  Palm  Beach  inclusive — may  have  been 
serving  one  lone  vegetable  as  a  separate  course 
for  years  and  years;  but  I  feel  sure  that  through- 
out the  interior  the  disclosure  will  come  as  a 
pleasant  surprise. 

The  directions  for  executing  this  coup  are 
simple  and  all  the  deadlier  because  they  are  so 
simple.  The  main  thing  is  to  invite  your  chief 
opponent  as  a  smart  entertainer;  you  know  the 
one  I  mean — the  woman  who  scored  such  a  dis- 
tinct social  triumph  in  the  season  of  1912—13  by 
being  the  first  woman  in  town  to  serve  tomato 
bisque  with  whipped  cream  on  it.  Have  her 
there  by  all  means.  Go  ahead  with  your  dinner 
as  though  naught  sensational  and  revolutionary 
were  about  to  happen.  Give  them  in  proper 
turn  the  oysters,  the  fish,  the  entree,  the  bird, 
[141] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  salad.  And  then,  all  by  itself,  alone  and 
unafraid,  bring  on  a  dab  of  string-beans. 

Wait  until  you  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes,  and 
aim  and  fire  at  will.  Settle  back  then,  until  the 
first  hushed  shock  has  somewhat  abated — until 
your  dazed  and  suffering  rival  is  glaring  about 
in  a  well-bred  but  flustered  manner,  looking  for 
something  to  go  with  the  beans.  Hold  her  eye 
while  you  smile  a  smile  that  is  compounded  of 
equal  parts — superior  wisdom,  and  gentle  con- 
tempt for  her  ignorance — and  then  slowly,  de- 
liberately, dip  a  fork  into  the  beans  on  your 
plate  and  go  to  it. 

Believe  me,  it  cannot  lose.  Before  breakfast 
time  the  next  morning  every  woman  who  was 
at  that  dinner  will  either  be  sending  out  invita- 
tions for  a  dinner  of  her  own  and  ordering  beans, 
or  she  will  be  calling  up  her  nearest  and  best 
friend  on  the  telephone  to  spread  the  tidings. 
I  figure  that  the  intense  social  excitement  oc- 
casioned in  this  country  a  few  years  ago  by  the 
introduction  of  Russian  salad  dressing  will  be 
as  nothing  in  comparison. 

This  stunt  of  serving  the  vegetable  as  a  sepa- 
rate course  was  one  of  the  things  I  learned  about 
food  during  our  Sittings  across  Europe,  but  it 
was  not  the  only  thing  I  learned — by  a  long  shot 
it  was  not.  For  example  I  learned  this — and  I 
do  not  care  what  anybody  else  may  say  to  the 
contrary  either — that  here  in  America  we  have 
better  food  and  more  different  kinds  of  food, 
and  food  better  cooked  and  better  served  than 
[  1421 


ON  THE  NEARER  BANK  WAS  A  VILLAGE  POPULATED  BY  SHORT  PEOPLE  AND  LONG  DOGS 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

the  effete  monarchies  of  the  Old  World  ever 
dreamed  of.  And,  quality  and  variety  consid- 
ered, it  costs  less  here,  bite  for  bite,  than  it 
costs  there. 

Food  in  Germany  is  cheaper  than  anywhere 
else  almost,  I  reckon;  and,  selected  with  care 
and  discrimination,  a  German  dinner  is  an  ex- 
cellently good  dinner.  Certain  dishes  in  Eng- 
land— and  they  are  very  certain,  for  you  get 
them  at  every  meal — are  good,  too,  and  not 
overly  expensive.  There  are  some  distinctive 
Austrian  dishes  that  are  not  without  their  at- 
tractions either.  Speaking  by  and  large,  how- 
ever, I  venture  the  assertion  that,  taking  any 
first-rate  restaurant  in  any  of  the  larger  Ameri- 
can cities  and  balancing  it  off  against  any  es- 
tablishment of  like  standing  in  Europe,  the 
American  restaurant  wins  on  cuisine,  service, 
price,  flavor  and  attractiveness. 

Centuries  of  careful  and  constant  press- 
agenting  have  given  French  cookery  much  of 
its  present  fame.  The  same  crafty  processes  of 
publicity,  continued  through  a  period  of  eight 
or  nine  hundred  years,  have  endowed  the 
European  scenic  effects  with  a  glamour  and  an 
impressiveness  that  really  are  not  there,  if  you 
can  but  forget  the  advertising  and  consider  the 
proposition  on  its  merits. 

Take  their  rivers  now — their  historic  rivers, 

if  you  please.    You  are  traveling — heaven  help 

you — on  a  Continental  train.    Between  spells  of 

having  your  ticket  punched  or  torn  apart,  or 

f  145  1 


EUROPE    REVISED 


otherwise  mutilated;  and  getting  out  at  the  bor- 
der to  see  your  trunks  ceremoniously  and  sol- 
emnly unloaded  and  unlocked,  and  then  as  cere- 
moniously relocked  and  reloaded  after  you  have 
conferred  largess  on  everybody  connected  with 
the  train,  the  customs  regulations  being  mainly 
devised  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  not  tariff 
but  tips — between  these  periods,  which  consti- 
tute so  important  a  feature  of  Continental  travel 
— you  come,  let  us  say,  to  a  stream. 

It  is  a  puny  stream,  as  we  are  accustomed  to 
measure  streams,  boxed  in  by  stone  walls  and 
regulated  by  stone  dams,  and  frequently  it  is 
mud-colored  and,  more  frequently  still,  runs  be- 
tween muddy  banks.  In  the  West  it  would 
probably  not  even  be  dignified  with  a  regular 
name,  and  in  the  East  it  would  be  of  so  little 
importance  that  the  local  congressman  would 
not  ask  an  annual  appropriation  of  more  than 
half  a  million  dollars  for  the  purposes  of  dredg- 
ing, deepening  and  diking  it.  But  even  as  you 
cross  it  you  learn  that  it  is  the  Tiber  or  the 
Arno,  the  Elbe  or  the  Po;  and,  such  is  the  force 
of  precept  and  example,  you  immediately  get 
all  excited  and  worked  up  over  it. 

English  rivers  are  beautiful  enough  in  a  re- 
strained, well-managed,  landscape-gardened  sort 
of  way;  but  Americans  do  not  enthuse  over  an 
English  river  because  of  what  it  is  in  itself,  but 
because  it  happens  to  be  the  Thames  or  the 
Avon — because  of  the  distinguished  characters 
in  history  whose  names  are  associated  with  it. 
[  146] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

Hades  gets  much  of  its  reputation  the  same  way. 

I  think  of  one  experience  I  had  while  touring 
through  what  we  had  learned  to  call  the  Dachs- 
hund District.  Our  route  led  us  alongside  a 
most  inconsequential-looking  little  river.  Its 
contents  seemed  a  trifle  too  liquid  for  mud  and 
a  trifle  too  solid  for  water.  On  the  nearer  bank 
was  a  small  village  populated  by  short  people 
and  long  dogs.  Out  in  midstream,  making  poor 
headway  against  the  semi-gelid  current,  was  a 
little  flutter-tailed  steamboat  panting  and  puffing 
violently  and  kicking  up  a  lather  of  lacy  spray 
with  its  wheelbuckets  in  a  manner  to  remind 
you  of  a  very  warm  small  lady  fanning  herself 
with  a  very  large  gauze  fan,  and  only  getting 
hotter  at  the  job. 

In  America  that  stream  would  have  been 
known  as  Mink  Creek  or  Cassidy's  Run,  or  by 
some  equally  poetic  title;  but  when  I  found  out 
it  was  the  Danube — no  less — I  had  a  distinct 
thrill.  On  closer  examination  I  discovered  it  to 
be  a  counterfeit  thrill;  but  nevertheless, I  had  it. 

What  applies  in  the  main  to  the  scenery  ap- 
plies in  the  main  to  the  food.  France  has  the 
reputation  of  breeding  the  best  cooks  in  the 
world — and  maybe  she  does;  but  when  you  are 
calling  in  France  you  find  most  of  them  out. 
They  have  emigrated  to  America,  -where  a 
French  chef  gets  more  money  in  one  year  for  exer- 
cising his  art — and  gets  it  easier — than  he  could 
get  in  ten  years  at  home — and  is  given  better  in- 
gredients to  cook  with  than  he  ever  had  at  home. 
[147] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


The  hotel  in  Paris  at  which  we  stopped  served 
good  enough  meals,  all  of  them  centering,  of 
course,  round  the  inevitable  poulet  roti;  but  it 
took  the  staff  an  everlastingly  long  time  to 
bring  the  food  to  you.  If  you  grew  reckless 
and  ordered  anything  that  was  not  on  the  bill  it 
upset  the  entire  establishment;  and  before  they 
calmed  down  and  relayed  it  in  to  you  it  was 
time  for  the  next  meal.  Still,  I  must  say  we  did 
not  mind  the  waiting;  near  at  hand  a  fascinating 
spectacle  was  invariably  on  exhibition. 

At  the  next  table  sat  an  Italian  countess. 
Anyhow  they  told  me  she  was  an  Italian  coun- 
tess, and  she  wore  jewelry  enough  for  a  dozen 
countesses.  Every  time  I  beheld  her,  with  a 
big  emerald  earring  gleaming  at  either  side  of 
her  head,  I  thought  of  a  Lenox  Avenue  local  in 
the  New  York  Subway.  However,  it  was  not 
so  much  her  jewelry  that  proved  such  a  fasci- 
nating sight  as  it  was  her  pleasing  habit  of  fetch- 
ing out  a  gold-mounted  toothpick  and  exploring 
the  most  remote  and  intricate  dental  recesses 
of  herself  in  full  view  of  the  entire  dining  room, 
meanwhile  making  a  noise  like  somebody  sicking 
a  dog  on. 

The  Europeans  have  developed  public  tooth- 
picking  beyond  anything  we  know.  They  make 
an  outdoor  pastime  and  function  of  it,  whereas 
we  pursue  this  sport  more  or  less  privately. 
Over  there,  a  toothpick  is  a  family  heirloom  and 
is  handed  down  from  one  generation  to  another, 
and  is  operated  in  company  ostentatiously.  In 
[148] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

its  use  some  Europeans  are  absolutely  gifted. 
But  then  we  beat  the  world  at  open-air  gum- 
chewing — so  I  reckon  the  honors  are  about 
even. 

This  particular  hotel,  in  common  with  all 
other  first-class  hotels  in  Paris,  was  forgetful 
about  setting  forth  on  its  menu  the  prices  of  its 
best  dishes  and  its  special  dishes.  I  take  it  this 
arrangement  was  devised  for  the  benefit  of  cur- 
rency-quilted Americans.  A  Frenchman  asks 
the  waiter  the  price  of  an  unpriced  dish  and  then 
orders  something  else;  but  the  American,  as 
a  rule,  is  either  too  proud  or  too  foolish  to  in- 
quire into  these  details.  At  home  he  is  beset 
by  a  hideous  fear  that  some  waiter  will  think  he 
is  of  a  mercenary  nature;  and  when  he  is  abroad 
this  trait  in  him  is  accentuated.  So,  in  his  care- 
free American  way,  he  orders  a  portion  of  a  dish 
of  an  unspecified  value;  whereupon  the  head 
waiter  slips  out  to  the  office  and  ascertains  by 
private  inquiry  how  large  a  letter  of  credit  the 
American  is  carrying  with  him,  and  comes  back 
and  charges  him  all  the  traffic  will  bear. 

As  for  the  keeper  of  a  fashionable  cafe  on  a 
boulevard  or  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix — well,  along- 
side of  him  the  most  rapacious  restaurant  pro- 
prietor on  Broadway  is  a  kindly,  Christian  soul 
who  is  in  business  for  his  health — and  not  feeling 
very  healthy  at  that.  When  you  dine  at  one  of 
the  swagger  boulevard  places  the  head  waiter 
always  comes,  just  before  you  have  finished, 
and  places  a  display  of  fresh  fruit  before  you, 
[  149] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


with  a  winning  smile  and  a  bow  and  a  gesture, 
which,  taken  together,  would  seem  to  indicate 
that  he  is  extending  the  compliments  of  the 
season  and  that  the  fruit  will  be  on  the  house; 
but  never  did  one  of  the  intriguing  scoundrels 
deceive  me.  Somewhere,  years  before,  I  had 
read  statistics  on  the  cost  of  fresh  fruit  in  a 
Paris  restaurant,  and  so  I  had  a  care.  The 
sight  of  a  bunch  of  hothouse  grapes  alone  was 
sufficient  to  throw  me  into  a  cold  perspiration 
right  there  at  the  table;  and  as  for  South  African 
peaches,!  carefully  walked  around  them, getting 
farther  away  all  the  time.  A  peach  was  just 
the  same  as  a  pesthouse  to  me,  in  Paris. 

Alas  though!  no  one  had  warned  me  about 
French  oysters,  and  once — just  once — I  ate 
some,  which  made  two  mistakes  on  my  part, 
one  financial  and  the  other  gustatory.  They 
were  not  particularly  flavorous  oysters  as  we 
know  oysters  on  this  side  of  the  ocean.  The 
French  oyster  is  a  small,  copper-tinted  proposi- 
tion, and  he  tastes  something  like  an  indisposed 
mussel  and  something  like  a  touch  of  bilious- 
ness; but  he  is  sufficiently  costly  for  all  purposes. 
The  cafe  proprietor  cherishes  him  so  highly  that 
he  refuses  to  vulgarize  him  by  printing  the  ask- 
ing price  on  the  same  menu.  A  person  in 
France  desirous  of  making  a  really  ostentatious 
display  of  his  affluence,  on  finding  a  pearl  in  an 
oyster,  would  swallow  the  pearl  and  wear  the 
oyster  on  his  shirtfront.  That  would  stamp 
him  as  a  person  of  wealth. 
[150] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

However,  I  am  not  claiming  that  all  French 
cookery  is  ultra-exorbitant  in  price  or  of  exces- 
sively low  grade.  We  had  one  of  the  surprises 
of  our  lives  when,  by  direction  of  a  friend  who 
knew  Paris,  we  went  to  a  little  obscure  cafe  that 
was  off  the  tourist  route  and  therefore — as  yet 
— unspoiled  and  uncommercialized.  This  place 
was  up  a  back  street  near  one  of  the  markets; 
a  small  and  smellsome  place  it  was,  decorated 
most  atrociously.  In  the  front  window,  in  close 
juxtaposition,  were  a  platter  of  French  snails 
and  a  platter  of  sticky  confections  full  of  dark 
spots.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  snails  for 
anything  except  snails;  but  the  other  articles 
were  either  currant  buns  or  plain  buns  that  had 
been  made  in  an  unscreened  kitchen. 

Within  were  marble-topped  tables  of  the 
Louie-Quince  period  and  stuffy  wall-seats  of 
faded,  dusty  red  velvet;  and  a  waiter  in  his 
shirtsleeves  was  wandering  about  with  a  sheaf 
of  those  long  French  loaves  tucked  under  his 
arm  like  golfsticks,  distributing  his  loaves  among 
the  diners.  But  somewhere  in  its  mysterious 
and  odorous  depths  that  little  bourgeois  cafe  har- 
bored an  honest-to-goodness  cook.  He  knew  a 
few  things  about  grilling  a  pig's  knuckle — that 
worthy  person.  He  could  make  the  knuckle  of 
a  pig  taste  like  the  wing  of  an  angel;  and  what 
he  could  do  with  a  skillet,  a  pinch  of  herbs  and 
a  calf's  sweetbread  passed  human  understanding. 

Certain  animals  in  Europe  do  have  the  most 
delicious  diseases  anyway — notably  the  calf  and 
[1511 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  goose,  particularly  the  goose  of  Strasburg, 
where  the  pate  de  foie  gras  comes  from.  The 
engorged  liver  of  a  Strasburg  goose  must  be  a 
source  of  joy  to  all — except  its  original  owner! 
Several  times  we  went  back  to  the  little 
restaurant  round  the  corner  from  the  market, 
and  each  time  we  had  something  good.  The 
food  we  ate  there  helped  to  compensate  for  the 
terrific  disillusionment  awaiting  us  when  we 
drove  out  of  Paris  to  a  typical  roadside  inn,  to 
get  some  of  that  wonderful  provincial  cookery 
that  through  all  our  reading  days  we  had  been 
hearing  about.  You  will  doubtless  recall  the 
description,  as  so  frequently  and  graphically 
dished  up  by  the  inspired  writers  of  travelogue 
stuff — the  picturesque,  tumbledown  place,  where 
on  a  cloth  of  coarse  linen — white  like  snow — old 
Marie,  her  wrinkled  face  abeam  with  hospitality 
and  kindness,  places  the  delicious  omelet  she 
has  just  made,  and  brings  also  the  marvelous 
salad  and  the  perfect  fowl,  and  the  steaming  hot 
coffee  fragrant  as  breezes  from  Araby  the  Blest, 
and  the  vin  ordinaire  that  is  even  as  honey  and 
gold  to  the  thirsty  throat.  You  must  know  that 


We  went  to  see  for  ourselves.  At  a  distance 
of  half  a  day's  automobile  run  from  Paris  we 
found  an  establishment  answering  to  the  plans 
and  specifications.  It  was  shoved  jam-up 
against  the  road,  as  is  the  French  custom;  and 
it  was  surrounded  by  a  high,  broken  wall,  on 
which  all  manner  of  excrescences  in  the  shape  of 
[  1521 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  FRENCH  VERSION  OF  THE  STORY  OF  THE  FLOOD 
ONLY  TWO  ANIMALS  EMERGED  FROM  THE  ARK 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

tiny  dormers  and  misshapen  little  towers  hung, 
like  Texas  ticks  on  the  ears  of  a  quarantined 
steer.  Within  the  wall  the  numerous  ruins  that 
made  up  the  inn  were  thrown  together  any 
fashion,  some  facing  one  way,  some  facing  the 
other  way,  and  some  facing  all  ways  at  once; 
so  that,  for  the  housefly,  so  numerously  en- 
countered on  these  premises,  it  was  but  a  short 
trip  and  a  merry  one  from  the  stable  to  the 
dining  room  and  back  again. 

Sure  enough,  old  Marie  was  on  the  job.  Not 
desiring  to  be  unkind  or  unduly  critical  I  shall 
merely  state  that  as  a  cook  old  Marie  was  what 
we  who  have  been  in  France  and  speak  the  lan- 
guage fluently  would  call  la  limite!  The  omelet 
she  turned  out  for  us  was  a  thing  that  was  very 
firm  and  durable,  containing,  I  think,  leather 
findings,  with  a  sprinkling  of  chopped  henbane 
on  the  top.  The  coffee  was  as  feeble  a  counter- 
feit as  chicory  usually  is  when  it  is  masquerading 
as  coffee,  and  the  vin  ordinaire  had  less  of  the 
vin  to  it  and  more  of  the  ordinaire  than  any  we 
sampled  elsewhere. 

Right  here  let  me  say  this  for  the  much- 
vaunted  vin  ordinaire  of  Europe:  In  the  end 
it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an 
adder — not  like  the  ordinary  Egyptian  adder, 
but  like  a  patent  adder  in  the  office  of  a 
loan  shark,  which  is  the  worst  stinger  of  the 
whole  adder  family.  If  consumed  with  any  de- 
gree of  freedom  it  puts  a  downy  coat  on  your 
tongue  next  morning  that  causes  you  to  think 
[155] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


you  inadvertently  swallowed  the  pillow  in  your 
sleep.  Good  domestic  wine  costs  as  much  in 
Europe  as  good  domestic  wine  costs  in  America 
— possibly  more  than  as  much. 

The  souffle  potatoes  of  old  Marie  were  not 
bad  to  look  on,  but  I  did  not  test  them  other- 
wise. Even  in  my  own  country  I  do  not  care 
to  partake  of  souffle  potatoes  unless  I  know 
personally  the  person  who  blew  them  up.  So 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  repast  we  nibbled  tenta- 
tively at  the  dessert,  which  was  a  pancake  with 
jelly,  done  in  the  image  of  a  medicated  bandage 
but  not  so  tasty  as  one.  And  then  I  paid  the 
check,  which  was  of  august  proportions,  and  we 
came  sadly  away,  realizing  that  another  happy 
dream  of  youth  had  been  shattered  to  bits. 
Only  the  tablecloth  had  been  as  advertised.  It 
was  coarse,  but  white  like  snow — like  snow 
three  days  old  in  Pittsburgh. 

Yet  I  was  given  to  understand  that  was  a 
typical  rural  French  inn  and  fully  up  to  the 
standards  of  such  places;  but  if  the  manager  of 
a  roadhouse  within  half  a  day's  ride  of  New 
York  or  Boston  or  Philadelphia  served  such  food 
to  his  patrons,  at  such  prices,  the  sheriff  would 
have  him  inside  of  two  months;  and  everybody 
would  be  glad  of  it  too — except  the  sheriff. 
Also,  no  humane  man  in  this  country  would  ask 
a  self-respecting  cow  to  camp  overnight  in  such 
outbuildings  as  abutted  on  the  kitchen  of  this 
particular  inn. 

I  am  not  denying  that  we  have  in  America 
[156] 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

some  pretty  bad  country  hotels,  where  good 
food  is  most  barbarously  mistreated  and  good 
beds  are  rare  to  find,  but  we  admit  our  short- 
comings in  this  regard  and  we  deplore  them — 
we  do  not  shellac  them  over  with  a  glamour  of 
bogus  romance,  with  intent  to  deceive  the  for- 
eign visitor  to  our  shores.  We  warn  him  in 
advance  of  what  he  may  expect  and  urge  him 
to  carry  his  rations  with  him. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  add  that  old  Marie 
gave  us  veal  and  poulet  roti.  According  to  the 
French  version  of  the  story  of  the  Flood  only 
two  animals  emerged  from  the  Ark  when  the 
waters  receded — one  was  an  immature  hen  and 
the  other  was  an  adolescent  calf.  At  every  meal 
except  breakfast — when  they  do  not  give  you 
anything  at  all — the  French  give  you  veal  and 
poulet  roti.  If  at  lunch  you  had  the  poulet  roti 
first  and  afterward  the  veal,  why,  then  at  dinner 
they  provide  a  pleasing  variety  by  bringing  on 
the  veal  first  and  the  poulet  roti  afterward. 

The  veal  is  invariably  stringy  and  coated  over 
with  weird  sauces,  and  the  poulet  never  appears 
at  the  table  in  her  recognizable  members — such 
as  wings  and  drumsticks — but  is  chopped  up 
with  a  cleaver  into  cross  sections,  and  strange- 
looking  chunks  of  the  wreckage  are  sent  to  you. 
Moreover  they  cook  the  chicken  in  such  a  way 
as  to  destroy  its  original  taste,  and  the  veal  in 
such  a  way  as  to  preserve  its  original  taste, 
both  being  inexcusable  errors. 

Nowhere  in  the  larger  Italian  cities,  except  by 
[1571 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  exercise  of  a  most  tremendous  determina- 
tion, can  you  get  any  real  Italian  cooking  or 
any  real  Italian  dishes.  At  the  hotels  they 
feed  you  on  a  pale,  sad  table-d'hote  imitation 
of  French  cooking,  invariably  buttressed  with 
the  everlasting  veal  and  the  eternal  poulet  roti. 
At  the  finish  of  a  meal  the  waiter  brings  you, 
on  one  plate,  two  small  withered  apples  and 
a  bunch  of  fly-specked  sour  grapes;  and,  on 
another  plate,  the  mortal  remains  of  some  ex- 
cessively deceased  cheese  wearing  a  tinfoil 
shroud  and  appropriately  laid  out  in  a  small, 
white,  coffin-shaped  box. 

After  this  had  happened  to  me  several  times 
I  told  the  waiter  with  gentle  irony  that  he  might 
as  well  screw  the  lid  back  on  the  casket  and  pro- 
ceed with  the  obsequies.  I  told  him  I  was  not 
one  of  those  morbid  people  who  love  to  look  on 
the  faces  of  the  strange  dead.  The  funeral 
could  not  get  under  way  too  soon  to  suit  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  this  funeral  was  already 
several  days  overdue.  That  was  what  I  told 
him. 

In  my  travels  the  best  place  I  ever  found  to 
get  Italian  dishes  was  a  basement  restaurant 
under  an  old  brownstone  house  on  Forty-seventh 
Street,  in  New  York.  There  you  might  find  the 
typical  dishes  of  Italy — I  defy  you  to  find  them 
in  Italy  without  a  search-warrant.  However, 
while  in  Italy  the  tourist  may  derive  much  en- 
tertainment and  instruction  from  a  careful 
study  of  table  manners. 

[1581 


A    TALE    OF    A    STRING-BEAN 

In  our  own  land  we  produce  some  reasonably 
boisterous  trenchermen,  and  some  tolerably 
careless  ones  too.  Several  among  us  have  yet 
to  learn  how  to  eat  corn  on  the  ear  and  at  the 
same  time  avoid  corn  in  the  ear.  A  dish  of 
asparagus  has  been  known  to  develop  fine 
acoustic  properties,  and  in  certain  quarters 
there  is  a  crying  need  for  a  sound-proof  soup; 
but  even  so,  and  admitting  these  things  as 
facts,  we  are  but  mere  beginners  in  this  line 
when  compared  with  our  European  brethren. 

In  the  caskets  of  memory  I  shall  ever  cherish 
the  picture  of  a  particularly  hairy  gentleman, 
apparently  of  Russian  extraction,  who  patron- 
ized our  hotel  in  Venice  one  evening.  He  was 
what  you  might  call  a  human  hazard — a  golf- 
player  would  probably  have  thought  of  him  in 
that  connection.  He  was  eating  flour  dump- 
lings, using  his  knife  for  a  niblick  all  the  way 
round;  and  he  lost  every  other  shot  in  a  con- 
cealed bunker  on  the  edge  of  the  rough;  and  he 
could  make  more  noise  sucking  his  teeth  than 
some  people  could  make  playing  on  a  fife. 

There  is  a  popular  belief  to  the  effect  that 
the  Neapolitan  eats  his  spaghetti  by  a  deft  proc- 
ess of  wrapping  thirty  or  forty  inches  round  the 
tines  of  his  fork  and  then  lifting  it  inboard,  an 
ell  at  a  time.  This  is  not  correct.  The  true 
Neapolitan  does  not  eat  his  spaghetti  at  all — 
he  inhales  it.  He  gathers  up  a  loose  strand  and 
starts  it  down  his  throat.  He  then  respires 
from  the  diaphragm,  and  like  a  troupe  of  trained 
[1591 


EUROPE    REVISED 


angleworms  that  entire  mass  of  spaghetti  un- 
coils itself,  gets  up  off  the  plate  and  disappears 
inside  him — en  masse,  as  it  were — and  making 
him  look  like  a  man  who  is  chinning  himself 
over  a  set  of  bead  portieres.  I  fear  we  in 
America  will  never  learn  to  siphon  our  spaghetti 
into  us  thus.  It  takes  a  nation  that  has  prac- 
ticed deep  breathing  for  centuries. 


[1601 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  DEADLY  POULET  ROUTINE 


UNDER  the  head  of  European  disillu- 
sionments  I  would  rate,  along  with 
the  vin  ordinaire  of  the  French  vine- 
yard and  inkworks,  the  barmaid  of 
Britain.  From  what  you  have  heard  on  this 
subject  you  confidently  expect  the  British  bar- 
maid to  be  buxom,  blond,  blooming,  billowy, 
buoyant — but  especially  blond.  On  the  con- 
trary she  is  generally  brunette,  frequently  mid- 
dle-aged, in  appearance  often  fair-to-middling 
homely,  and  in  manner  nearly  always  abounding 
with  a  stiffness  and  hauteur  that  would  do  credit 
to  a  belted  earl,  if  the  belting  had  just  taken 
place  and  the  earl  was  still  groggy  from  the 
effects  of  it.  Also,  she  has  the  notion  of  personal 
adornment  that  is  common  in  more  than  one 
social  stratum  of  women  in  England.  If  she  has 
a  large,  firm,  solid  mound  of  false  hair  over- 
hanging her  brow  like  an  impending  landslide, 
and  at  least  three  jingly  bracelets  on  each  wrist, 
[161] 


she  considers  herself  well  dressed,  no  matter  what 
else  she  may  or  may  not  be  wearing. 

Often  this  lady  is  found  presiding  over  an 
American  bar,  which  is  an  institution  now  com- 
monly met  with  in  all  parts  of  London.  The 
American  bar  of  London  differs  from  the  ordi- 
nary English  bar  of  London  in  two  respects, 
namely — there  is  an  American  flag  draped  over 
the  mirror,  and  it  is  a  place  where  they  sell  all 
the  English  drinks  and  are  just  out  of  all  the 
American  ones.  If  you  ask  for  a  Bronx  the 
barmaid  tells  you  they  do  not  carry  seafood  in 
stock  and  advises  you  to  apply  at  the  fish- 
mongers'— second  turning  to  the  right,  sir,  and 
then  over  the  way,  sir — just  before  you  come 
to  the  bottom  of  the  road,  sir.  If  you  ask  for 
a  Mamie  Taylor  she  gets  it  confused  in  her 
mind  with  a  Sally  Lunn  and  sends  out  for 
yeastcake  and  a  cookbook;  and  while  you  are 
waiting  she  will  give  you  a  genuine  Yankee 
drink,  such  as  a  brandy  and  soda — or  she  will 
suggest  that  you  smoke  something  and  take  a 
look  at  the  evening  paper. 

If  you  do  smoke  something,  beware — oh,  be- 
ware ! — of  the  native  English  cigar.  When  rolled 
between  the  fingers  it  gives  off  a  dry,  rustling 
sound  similar  to  a  shuck  mattress.  For  smoking 
purposes  it  is  also  open  to  the  same  criticisms 
that  a  shuck  mattress  is.  The  flames  smolder 
in  the  walls  and  then  burst  through  in  unexpected 
places,  and  the  smoke  sucks  up  the  airshaft  and 
mushrooms  on  your  top  floor;  then  the  deadly 
[162] 


THE    DEADLY    POULET    ROUTINE 

back  draft  comes  and  the  fatal  firedamp,  and 
when  the  firemen  arrive  you  are  a  ruined  tene- 
ment. Except  the  German,  the  French,  the 
Belgian,  the  Austrian  and  the  Italian  cigar,  the 
English  cigar  is  the  worst  cigar  I  ever  saw.  I 
did  not  go  to  Spain;  they  tell  me,  though,  the 
Spanish  cigar  has  the  high  qualifications  of  bad- 
ness. Spanish  cigars  are  not  really  cigars  at  all, 
I  hear;  they  fall  into  the  classification  of  defec- 
tive flues. 

Likewise  beware  of  the  alleged  American 
cocktail  occasionally  dispensed,  with  an  air  of 
pride  and  accomplished  triumph,  by  the  British 
barmaid  of  an  American  bar.  If  for  purposes 
of  experiment  and  research  you  feel  that  you 
must  take  one,  order  with  it,  instead  of  the 
customary  olive  or  cherry,  a  nice  boiled  vegeta- 
ble marrow.  The  advantage  to  be  derived  from 
this  is  that  the  vegetable  marrow  takes  away 
the  taste  of  anything  else  and  does  not  have  any 
taste  of  its  own. 

In  the  eating  line  the  Englishman  depends  on 
the  staples.  He  sticks  to  the  old  standby s. 
What  was  good  enough  for  his  fathers  is  good 
enough  for  him — in  some  cases  almost  too  good. 
Monotony  of  victuals  does  not  distress  him.  He 
likes  his  food  to  be  humdrum;  the  humdrummer 
the  better. 

Speaking  with  regard  to  the  whole  country, 

I  am  sure  we  have  better  beef  uniformly  in 

America  than  in  England;  but  there  is  at  least 

one  restaurant  on  the  Strand  where  the  roast 

[163J 


EUROPE    REVISED 


beef  is  just  a  little  bit  superior  to  any  other 
roast  beef  on  earth.  English  mutton  is  incom- 
parable, too,  and  English  breakfast  bacon  is  a 
joy  forever.  But  it  never  seems  to  occur  to  an 
Englishman  to  vary  his  diet.  I  submit  samples 
of  the  daily  menu: 

LUNCHEON  DINNER 

Roast  Beef  Boiled  Mutton 

Boiled  Mutton  Roast  Beef 

Potatoes  )  -r,   .,    ,          Cabbage  )  T,  M    , 
^  ,  ,         f  Boiled  >•  Boiled 

Cabbage )  Potatoes ) 

Jam  Tart  Custard 

Custard  Jam  Tart 

Cheese  Coffee 

Coffee  Cheese 

TEA! 

I  know  now  why  an  Englishman  dresses  for 
dinner — it  enables  him  to  distinguish  dinner 
from  lunch. 

His  regular  desserts  are  worthy  of  a  line.  The 
jam  tart  is  a  death-mask  that  went  wrong  and 
in  consequence  became  morose  and  heavy  of 
spirit,  and  the  custard  is  a  soft-boiled  egg  which 
started  out  in  life  to  be  a  soft-boiled  egg  and 
at  the  last  moment — when  it  was  too  late — 
changed  its  mind  and  tried  to  be  something  else. 

In  the  City,  where  lunching  places  abound, 
the  steamer  works  overtime  and  the  stewpan 
never  rests.  There  is  one  place,  well  advertised 
to  American  visitors,  where  they  make  a  specialty 
of  their  beefsteak-and-kidney  pudding.  This  is 
[1641  ' 


THE    DEADLY    POULET    ROUTINE 

a  gummy  concoction  containing  steak,  kidney, 
mushroom,  oyster,  lark — and  sometimes  W  and 
Y.  Doctor  Johnson  is  said  to  have  been  very 
fond  of  it;  this,  if  true,  accounts  for  the  doctor's 
disposition.  A  helping  of  it  weighs  two  pounds 
before  you  eat  it  and  ten  pounds  afterward. 
The  kidney  is  its  predominating  influence.  The 
favorite  flower  of  the  English  is  not  the  prim- 
rose. It  is  the  kidney.  Wherever  you  go, 
among  the  restaurants,  there  is  always  some- 
body operating  on  a  steamed  flour  dumpling  for 
kidney  trouble. 

The  lower  orders  are  much  addicted  to  a  dish 
known — if  I  remember  the  name  aright — by  the 
euphonious  title  of  Toad  in  the  Hole.  Toad  in 
the  Hole  consists  of  a  full-grown  and  fragrant 
sheep's  kidney  entombed  in  an  excavated  re- 
treat at  the  heart  of  a  large  and  powerful  onion, 
and  then  cooked  in  a  slow  and  painful  manner J 
so  that  the  onion  and  the  kidney  may  swap  per- 
fumes and  flavors.  These  people  do  not  use 
this  combination  for  a  weapon  or  for  a  disin- 
fectant, or  for  anything  else  for  which  it  is 
naturally  purposed;  they  actually  go  so  far  as 
to  eat  it.  You  pass  a  cabmen's  lunchroom  and 
get  a  whiff  of  a  freshly  opened  Toad  in  the  Hole 
— and  you  imagine  it  is  the  German  invasion 
starting  and  wonder  why  they  are  not  removing 
the  women  and  children  to  a  place  of  safety. 
All  England  smells  like  something  boiling,  just 
as  all  France  smells  like  something  that  needs 
boiling. 

[165] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Seemingly  the  only  Londoners  who  enjoy  any 
extensive  variety  in  their  provender  are  the 
slum-dwellers.  Out  Whitechapel-way  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  tripe  dresser  and  draper  is  a  sight 
wondrous  to  behold,  and  will  almost  instantly 
eradicate  the  strongest  appetite;  but  it  is  not 
to  be  compared  with  an  East  End  meatshop, 
where  there  are  skinned  sheep  faces  on  slabs, 
and  various  vital  organs  of  various  animals  dis- 
posed about  in  clumps  and  clusters.  I  was  re- 
minded of  one  of  those  Fourteenth  Street  mu- 
seums of  anatomy — tickets  ten  cents  each ;  boys 
under  fourteen  not  admitted.  The  East  End 
butcher  is  not  only  a  thrifty  but  an  inquiring 
soul.  Until  I  viewed  his  shop  I  had  no  idea  that 
a  sheep  could  be  so  untidy  inside;  and  as  for  a 
cow — he  finds  things  in  a  cow  she  didn't  know 
she  had. 

Breakfast  is  the  meal  at  which  the  English- 
man rather  excels;  in  fact  England  is  the  only 
country  in  Europe  where  the  natives  have  the 
faintest  conception  of  what  a  regular  breakfast 
is,  or  should  be.  Moreover,  it  is  now  possible 
in  certain  London  hotels  for  an  American  to  get 
hot  bread  and  ice-water  at  breakfast,  though 
the  English  round  about  look  on  with  undis- 
guised horror  as  he  consumes  them,  and  the 
manager  only  hopes  that  he  will  have  the  good 
taste  not  to  die  on  the  premises. 

It  is  true  that,  in  lieu  of  the  fresh  fruit  an 
American  prefers,  the  waiter  brings  at  least 
three  kinds  of  particularly  sticky  marmalade 
f  1661 


THE  DEADLY  POULET  ROUTINE 

and,  in  accordance  with  a  custom  that  dates 
back  to  the  time  of  the  Druids,  spangles  the 
breakfast  cloth  over  with  a  large  number  of 
empty  saucers  and  plates,  which  fulfill  no 
earthly  purpose  except  to  keep  getting  in  the 
way.  The  English  breakfast  bacon,  however, 
is  a  most  worthy  article,  and  the  broiled  kipper  is 
juicy  and  plump,  and  does  not  resemble  a  dried 
autumn  leaf,  as  our  kipper  often  does.  And  the 
fried  sole,  on  which  the  Englishman  banks  his 
breakfast  hopes,  invariably  repays  one  for  one's 
undivided  attention.  The  English  boast  of 
their  fish;  but,  excusing  the  kipper,  they  have 
but  three  of  note — the  turbot,  the  plaice  and 
the  sole.  And  the  turbot  tastes  like  turbot,  and 
the  plaice  tastes  like  fish;  but  the  sole,  when 
fried,  is  most  appetizing. 

I  have  been  present  when  the  English  goose- 
berry and  the  English  strawberry  were  very 
highly  spoken  of,  too,  but  with  me  this  is  merely 
hearsay  evidence;  we  reached  England  too  late 
for  berries.  Happily,  though,  we  came  hi  good 
season  for  the  green  filbert,  which  is  gathered 
in  the  fall  of  the  year,  being  known  then  as  the 
Kentish  cobnut.  The  Kentish  cob  beats  any 
nut  we  have  except  the  paper-shell  pecan.  The 
English  postage  stamp  is  also  much  tastier  than 
ours.  The  space  for  licking  is  no  larger,  if  as 
large — but  the  flavor  lasts. 

As  I  said  before,  the  Englishman  has  no  great 
variety  of  things  to  eat,  but  he  is  always  eating 
them;  and  when  he  is  not  eating  them  he  is 
[169] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


swigging  tea.  Yet  in  these  regards  the  German 
excels  him.  The  Englishman  gains  a  lap  at 
breakfast;  but  after  that  first  hour  the  German 
leaves  him,  hopelessly  distanced,  far  in  the  rear. 
It  is  due  to  his  talents  in  this  respect  that  the 
average  Berliner  has  a  double  chin  running  all 
the  way  round,  and  four  rolls  of  fat  on  the  back 
of  his  neck,  all  closely  clipped  and  shaved,  so 
as  to  bring  out  their  full  beauty  and  symmetry, 
and  a  figure  that  makes  him  look  as  though  an 
earthquake  had  shaken  loose  everything  on  the 
top  floor  and  it  all  fell  through  into  his  dining 
room. 

Your  true  Berliner  eats  his  regular  daily  meals 
— four  in  number  and  all  large  ones;  and  in  be- 
tween times  he  now  and  then  gathers  a  bite. 
For  instance,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
he  knocks  off  for  an  hour  and  has  a  few  cups 
of  hard-boiled  coffee  and  some  sweet,  sticky 
pastry  with  whipped  cream  on  it.  Then  about 
four  in  the  afternoon  he  browses  a  bit,  just  to 
keep  up  his  appetite  for  dinner.  This,  though, 
is  but  a  snack — say,  a  school  of  Bismarck  herring 
and  a  kraut  pie,  some  more  coffee  and  more 
cake,  and  one  thing  and  another — merely  a  pre- 
liminary to  the  real  food,  which  will  be  coming 
along  a  little  later  on.  Between  acts  at  the 
theater  he  excuses  himself  and  goes  out  and 
prepares  his  stomach  for  supper,  which  will  fol- 
low at  eleven,  by  drinking  two  or  three  steins 
of  thick  Munich  beer,  and  nibbling  on  such 
small  tidbits  as  a  rosary  of  German  sausage  or 
11701 


THE    DEADLY    POULET    ROUTINE 

the  upper  half  of  a  raw  Westphalia  ham.  There 
are  forty-seven  distinct  and  separate  varieties 
of  German  sausage  and  three  of  them  are  edible; 
but  the  Westphalia  ham,  in  my  judgment,  is 
greatly  overrated.  It  is  pronounced  Westfail- 
ure  with  the  accent  on  the  last  part,  where  it 
belongs. 

In  Germany,  however,  there  is  a  pheasant 
agreeably  smothered  in  young  cabbage  which  is 
delicious  and  in  season  plentiful.  The  only 
drawback  to  complete  enjoyment  of  this  dish 
is  that  the  grasping  and  avaricious  German 
restaurant  keeper  has  the  confounded  nerve  to 
charge  you,  in  our  money,  forty  cents  for  a 
whole  pheasant  and  half  a  peck  of  cabbage — 
say,  enough  to  furnish  a  full  meal  for  two  toler- 
ably hungry  adults  and  a  growing  child. 

The  Germans  like  to  eat  and  they  love  a 
hearty  eater.  There  should  never  be  any  trouble 
about  getting  a  suitable  person  to  serve  us  at 
the  Kaiser's  court  if  the  Administration  at 
Washington  will  but  harken  to  the  voice  of  ex- 
perience. To  the  Germans  the  late  Doctor 
Tanner  would  have  been  a  distinct  disappoint- 
ment in  an  ambassadorial  capacity;  but  there 
was  a  man  who  used  to  live  in  my  congressional 
district  who  could  qualify  in  a  holy  minute  if 
he  were  still  alive.  He  was  one  of  Nature's 
noblemen,  untutored  but  naturally  gifted,  and 
his  name  was  John  Wesley  Bass.  He  was  the 
champion  eater  of  the  world,  specializing  partic- 
ularly in  eggs  on  the  shell,  and  cove  oysters  out 
[171] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  the  can,  with  pepper  sauce  on  them,  and  soda 
crackers  on  the  side. 

I  regret  to  be  compelled  to  state,  however, 
that  John  Wesley  is  no  more.  At  one  of  our 
McCracken  County  annual  fairs,  a  few  years 
back,  he  succumbed  to  overambition  coupled 
with  a  mistake  in  judgment.  After  he  had  es- 
tablished a  new  world's  record  by  eating  at  one 
sitting  five  dozen  raw  eggs  he  rashly  rode  on  the 
steam  merry-go-round.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  fainted  and  fell  off  a 
spotted  wooden  horse  and  never  spoke  again,  but 
passed  away  soon  after  being  removed  to  his 
home  in  an  unconscious  condition.  I  have  for- 
gotten what  the  verdict  of  the  coroner's  jury 
was — the  attending  physician  gave  it  some  fancy 
Latin  name — but  among  laymen  the  general 
judgment  was  that  our  fellow  townsman  had 
just  naturally  been  scrambled  to  death.  It  was 
a  pity,  too — the  German  people  would  have 
cared  for  John  Wesley  as  an  ambassador.  He 
would  have  eaten  his  way  right  into  their 
affections. 

We  have  the  word  of  history  for  it  that  Vienna 
was  originally  settled  by  the  Celts,  but  you 
would  hardly  notice  it  now.  On  first  impres- 
sions you  would  say  that  about  Vienna  there 
was  a  noticeable  suggestion — a  perceptible  trace 
— of  the  Teutonic;  and  this  applies  to  the  Aus- 
trian food  in  the  main.  I  remember  a  kind  of 
Wiener-schnitzel,  breaded,  that  I  had  in  Vienna; 
in  fact  for  the  moment  I  do  not  seem  to  recall 
[  172] 


THE  DEADLY  POULET  ROUTINE 

much  else  about  Vienna.     Life  there  was  just 
one  Wiener-schnitzel  after  another. 

In  order  to  spread  sweetness  and  light,  and 
to  the  end,  furthermore,  that  the  ignorant  peo- 
ple across  the  salted  seas  might  know  something 
of  a  land  of  real  food  and  much  food,  and  plenty 
of  it  and  plenty  of  variety  to  it,  I  would  that 
I  might  bring  an  expedition  of  Europeans  to 
America  and  personally  conduct  it  up  and 
down  our  continent  and  back  and  forth  cross- 
wise of  it. 

And  if  I  had  the  money  of  a  Carnegie  or  a 
Rockefeller  I  would  do  it,  too,  for  it  would  be 
a  greater  act  of  charity  than  building  public 
libraries  or  endowing  public  baths.  I  would 
include  in  my  party  a  few  delegates  from  Eng- 
land, where  every  day  is  All  Soles'  Day;  and  a 
few  sausage-surfeited  Teutons ;  and  some  Gauls, 
wearied  and  worn  by  the  deadly  poulet  routine 
of  their  daily  life,  and  a  scattering  representa- 
tion from  all  the  other  countries  over  there. 

In  especial  I  would  direct  the  Englishman's 
attention  to  the  broiled  pompano  of  New  Or- 
leans; the  kingfish  filet  of  New  York;  the  sand- 
dab  of  Los  Angeles;  the  Boston  scrod  of  the 
Massachusetts  coast;  and  that  noblest  of  all 
pan  fish — the  fried  crappie  of  Southern  Indiana. 
To  these  and  to  many  another  delectable  fishling 
would  I  introduce  the  poor  fellow;  and  to  him 
and  his  fellows  I  fain  would  offer  a  dozen  apiece 
of  Smith  Island  oysters  on  the  half  shell. 

And  I  would  take  all  of  them  to  New  England 
[  1731 


EUROPE    REVISED 


for  baked  beans  and  brown  bread  and  codfish 
balls;  but  on  the  way  we  would  visit  the  shores 
of  Long  Island  for  a  kind  of  soft  clam  which 
first  is  steamed  and  then  is  esteemed.  At  Ports- 
mouth, "New* Hampshire,  they  should  each  have 
a  broiled  lobster  measuring  thirty  inches  from 
tip  to  tip,  fresh  caught  out  of  the  Piscataqua 
River. 

Vermont  should  come  to  them  in  hospitality 
and  in  pity,  offering  buckwheat  cakes  and  maple 
sirup.  But  Rhode  Island  would  bring  a  genuine 
Yankee  blueberry  pie  and  directions  for  the 
proper  consumption  of  it,  namely — discarding 
knife  and  fork,  to  raise  a  crusty,  dripping  wedge 
of  blueberry  pie  in  your  hand  to  your  mouth, 
and  to  take  a  first  bite,  which  instantly  changes 
the  ground-floor  plan  of  that  pie  from  a  triangle 
to  a  crescent;  and  then  to  take  a  second  bite, 
and  then  to  lick  your  fingers — and  then  there 
isn't  any  more  pie. 

Down  in  Kentucky  I  should  engage  Mandy 
Berry,  colored,  to  fry  for  them  some  spring 
chickens  and  make  for  them  a  few  pones  of 
real  cornbread.  In  Creole  Louisiana  they  should 
sample  crawfish  gumbo;  and  in  Georgia  they 
should  have  'possum  baked  with  sweet  potatoes; 
and  in  Tidewater  Maryland,  terrapin  and  can- 
vasback;  and  in  Illinois,  young  gray  squirrels  on 
toast;  and  in  South  Carolina,  boiled  rice  with 
black-eyed  peas;  and  in  Colorado,  cantaloupes; 
and  in  Kansas,  young  sweet  corn;  and  in  Vir- 
ginia, country  hams,  not  cured  with  chemicals 
[1741 


THE  DEADLY  POULET  ROUTINE 

but  with  hickory  smoke  and  loving  hands;  and 
in  Tennessee,  jowl  and  greens. 

And  elsewhere  they  should  have  their  whack- 
ing fill  of  prairie  hen  and  suckling  pig  and  bar- 
becued shote,  and  sure-enough  beefsteak,  and 
goobers  hot  from  the  parching  box;  and  scrapple, 
and  yams  roasted  in  hot  wood-ashes;  and  hot 
biscuit  and  waffles  and  Parker  House  rolls — 
and  the  thousand  and  one  other  good  things 
that  may  be  found  in  this  our  country,  and 
which  are  distinctively  and  uniquely  of  this 
country. 

Finally  I  would  bring  them  back  by  way  of 
Richmond,  and  there  I  would  give  them  each 
an  eggnog  compounded  with  fresh  cream  and 
made  according  to  a  recipe  older  than  the  Rev- 
olution. If  I  had  my  way  about  it  no  living 
creature  should  be  denied  the  right  to  bury  his 
face  in  a  brimming  tumbler  of  that  eggnog — 
except  a  man  with  a  drooping  red  mustache. 

By  the  time  those  gorged  and  converted  pil- 
grims touched  the  Eastern  seaboard  again  any 
one  of  them,  if  he  caught  fire,  would  burn  for 
about  four  days  with  a  clear  blue  flame,  and 
many  valuable  packing-house  by-products  could 
be  gleaned  from  his  ruins.  It  would  bind  us  all, 
foreigner  and  native  alike,  in  closer  ties  of  love 
and  confidence,  and  it  would  turn  the  tide  of 
travel  westward  from  Europe,  instead  of  east- 
ward from  America. 

Let's  do  it  sometime — and  appoint  me  con- 
ductor of  the  expedition! 
[175] 


CHAPTER  X 

MODES  OF  THE  MOMENT;  A  FASHION 
ARTICLE 


AMONG  the  furbearing  races  the  adult 
male  of  the  French  species  easily  ex- 
cels. Some  fine  peltries  are  to  be  seen 
in  Italy,  and  there  is  a  type  of  farming 
Englishman  who  wears  a  stiff  set  of  burnishers 
projecting  out  round  his  face  in  a  circular  effect 
suggestive  of  a  halo  that  has  slipped  down.  In 
connection  with  whiskers  I  have  heard  the 
Russians  highly  commended.  They  tell  me 
that,  from  a  distance,  it  is  very  hard  to  distin- 
guish a  muzhik  from  a  bosky  dell,  whereas  a 
grand  duke  nearly  always  reminds  one  of  some- 
thing tasty  and  luxuriant  in  the  line  of  orna- 
mental arborwork.  The  German  military  man 
specializes  in  mustaches,  preference  being  given 
to  the  Texas  longhorn  mustache,  and  the  walrus 
and  kitty-cat  styles.  A  dehorned  German  officer 
is  rarely  found  and  a  muley  one  is  practically 
unknown.  But  the  French  lead  all  the  world  in 
whiskers — both  the  wildwood  variety  and  the 
[1761 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


domesticated  kind  trained  on  a  trellis.  I  men- 
tion this  here  at  the  outset  because  no  French- 
man is  properly  dressed  unless  he  is  whiskered 
also;  such  details  properly  appertain  to  a  chapter 
on  European  dress. 

Probably  every  freeborn  American  citizen  has 
at  some  time  in  his  life  cherished  the  dream  of 
going  to  England  and  buying  himself  an  outfit 
of  English  clothes — just  as  every  woman  has 
had  hopes  of  visiting  Paris  and  stocking  up  with 
Parisian  gowns  on  the  spot  where  they  were 
created,  and  where — so  she  assumes — they  will 
naturally  be  cheaper  than  elsewhere.  Those 
among  us  who  no  longer  harbor  these  fancies  are 
the  men  and  women  who  have  tried  these  ex- 
periments. 

After  she  has  paid  the  tariff  on  them  a  woman 
is  pained  to  note  that  her  Paris  gowns  have  cost 
her  as  much  as  they  would  cost  her  in  the  United 
States — so  I  have  been  told  by  women  who  have 
invested  extensively  in  that  direction.  And 
though  a  man,  by  the  passion  of  the  moment, 
may  be  carried  away  to  the  extent  of  buying 
English  clothes,  he  usually  discovers  on  return- 
ing to  his  native  land  that  they  are  not  adapted 
to  withstand  the  trying  climatic  conditions  and 
the  critical  comments  of  press  and  public  in  this 
country.  What  was  contemplated  as  a  trium- 
phal reentrance  becomes  a  footrace  to  the  near- 
est ready-made  clothing  store. 

English  clothes  are  not  meant  for  Americans, 
but  for  Englishmen  to  wear:  that  is  a  great  car- 
[177] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


dinal  truth  which  Americans  would  do  well  to 
ponder.  Possibly  you  have  heard  that  an  Eng- 
lishman's clothes  fit  him  with  an  air.  They  do 
so;  they  fit  him  with  a  lot  of  air  around  the  collar 
and  a  great  deal  of  air  adjacent  to  the  waistband 
and  through  the  slack  of  the  trousers ;  frequently 
they  fit  him  with  such  an  air  that  he  is  entirely 
surrounded  by  space,  as  in  the  case  of  a  vacuum 
bottle.  Once  there  was  a  Briton  whose  overcoat 
collar  hugged  the  back  of  his  neck;  so  they  knew 
by  that  he  was  no  true  Briton,  but  an  impostor 
— and  they  put  him  out  of  the  union.  In  brief, 
the  kind  of  English  clothes  best  suited  for  an 
American  to  wear  is  the  kind  Americans  make. 

I  knew  these  things  in  advance — or,  anyway, 
I  should  have  known  them;  nevertheless  I  felt 
our  trip  abroad  would  not  be  complete  unless  I 
brought  back  some  London  clothes.  I  took  a 
look  at  the  shop-windows  and  decided  to  pass 
up  the  ready-made  things.  The  coat  shirt;  the 
shaped  s.ock;  the  collar  that  will  fit  the  neckband 
of  a  shirt,  and  other  common  American  com- 
modities, seemed  to  be  practically  unknown  in 
London. 

The  English  dress  shirt  has  such  a  dinky  little 
bosom  on  it  that  by  rights  you  cannot  refer  to  it 
as  a  bosom  at  all;  it  comes  nearer  to  being  what 
women  used  to  call  a  guimpe.  Every  show- 
window  where  I  halted  was  jammed  to  the  gun- 
wales with  thick,  fuzzy,  woolen  articles  and  in- 
flammatory plaid  waistcoats,  and  articles  in 
crash  for  tropical  wear — even  through  the  glass 
[178] 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


you  could  note  each  individual  crash  with  dis- 
tinctness. The  London  shopkeeper  adheres 
steadfastly  to  this  arrangement.  Into  his 
window  he  puts  everything  he  has  in  his  shop 
except  the  customer.  The  customer  is  in  the 
rear,  with  all  avenues  of  escape  expertly  fenced 
off  from  him  by  the  proprietor  and  the  clerks; 
but  the  stock  itself  is  in  the  show-window. 

There  are  just  two  department  stores  in  Lon- 
don where,  according  to  the  American  viewpoint, 
the  windows  are  attractively  dressed.  One  of 
these  stores  is  owned  by  an  American,  and  the 
other,  I  believe,  is  managed  by  an  American. 
In  Paris  there  are  many  shops  that  are  veritable 
jewel-boxes  for  beauty  and  taste;  but  these  are 
the  small  specialty  shops,  very  expensive  and 
highly  perfumed. 

The  Paris  department  stores  are  worse  jum- 
bles even  than  the  English  department  stores. 
When  there  is  a  special  sale  under  way  the  bar- 
gain counters  are  rigged  up  on  the  sidewalks. 
There,  in  the  open  air,  buyer  and  seller  will 
chaffer  and  bicker,  and  wrangle  and  quarrel,  and 
kiss  and  make  up  again — for  all  the  world  to  see. 
One  of  the  free  sights  of  Paris  is  a  frugal  French- 
man, with  his  face  extensively  haired  over,  paw- 
ing like  a  Skye  terrier  through  a  heap  of  marked- 
down  lingerie;  picking  out  things  for  the  female 
members  of  his  household  to  wear — now  testing 
some  material  with  his  tongue;  now  holding  a 
most  personal  article  up  in  the  sunlight  to  ex- 
amine the  fabric — while  the  wife  stands  humbly, 
[1791 


EUROPE    REVISED 


dumbly  by,  waiting  for  him  to  complete  his 
selections. 

So  far  as  London  was  concerned,  I  decided  to 
deny  myself  any  extensive  orgy  in  haberdashery. 
From  similar  motives  I  did  not  invest  in  the 
lounge  suit  to  which  an  Englishman  is  addicted. 
I  doubted  whether  it  would  fit  the  lounge  we 
have  at  home — though,  with  stretching,  it  might, 
at  that.  My  choice  finally  fell  on  an  English 
raincoat  and  a  pair  of  those  baggy  knee  breeches 
such  as  an  Englishman  wears  when  he  goes  to 
Scotland  for  the  moor  shooting,  or  to  the 
National  Gallery,  or  any  other  damp,  misty, 
rheumatic  place. 

I  got  the  raincoat  first.  It  was  built  to  my 
measure;  at  least  that  was  the  understanding; 
but  you  give  an  English  tailor  an  inch  and  he 
takes  an  ell.  This  particular  tailor  seemed  to 
labor  under  the  impression  that  I  was  going  to 
use  my  raincoat  for  holding  large  public  assem- 
blies or  social  gatherings  in — nothing  that  I 
could  say  convinced  him  that  I  desired  it  for 
individual  use;  so  he  modeled  it  on  a  generous 
spreading  design,  big  at  the  bottom  and  sloping 
up  toward  the  top  like  a  pagoda.  Equipped  with 
guy  ropes  and  a  centerpole  it  would  make  a 
first-rate  marquee  for  a  garden  party — in  case 
of  bad  weather  the  refreshments  could  be  served 
under  it;  but  as  a  raincoat  I  did  not  particularly 
fancy  it.  When  I  put  it  on  I  sort  of  reminded 
myself  of  a  covered  wagon. 

Nothing  daunted  by  this  I  looked  up  the  ad- 
[180] 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


dress  of  a  sporting  tailor  in  a  side  street  off 
Regent  Street,  whose  genius  was  reputed  to 
find  an  artistic  outlet  in  knee  breeches.  Before 
visiting  his  shop  I  disclosed  my  purpose  to  my 
traveling  companion,  an  individual  in  whose 
judgment  and  good  taste  I  have  ordinarily  every 
confidence,  and  who  has  a  way  of  coming  di- 
rectly to  the  meat  of  a  subject. 

"What  do  you  want  with  a  pair  of  knee 
breeches?"  inquired  this  person  crisply. 

"Why — er — for  general  sporting  occasions," 
I  replied. 

"For  instance,  what  occasions?" 

"For  golfing,"  I  said,  "and  for  riding,  you 
know.  And  if  I  should  go  West  next  year  they 
would  come  in  very  handy  for  the  shooting." 

"To  begin  with,"  said  my  companion,  "you 
do  not  golf.  The  only  extensive  riding  I  have 
ever  heard  of  your  doing  was  on  railway  trains. 
And  if  these  knee  breeches  you  contemplate 
buying  are  anything  like  the  knee  breeches  I 
have  seen  here  in  London,  and  if  you  should 
wear  them  out  West  among  the  impulsive  West- 
ern people,  there  would  undoubtedly  be  a  good 
deal  of  shooting;  but  I  doubt  whether  you  would 
enjoy  it — they  might  hit  you!" 

" Look  here ! "  I  said.  "Every  man  in  America 
who  wears  duck  pants  doesn't  run  a  poultry 
farm.  And  the  presence  of  a  sailor  hat  in  the 
summertime  does  not  necessarily  imply  that  the 
man  under  it  owns  a  yacht.  I  cannot  go  back 
home  to  New  York  and  face  other  and  older 
[181] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


members  of  the  When-I-Was-in-London  Club 
without  some  sartorial  credentials  to  show  for 
my  trip.  I  am  firmly  committed  to  this  under- 
taking. Do  not  seek  to  dissuade  me,  I  beg  of 
you.  My  mind  is  set  on  knee  breeches  and  I 
shan't  be  happy  until  I  get  them." 

So  saying  I  betook  myself  to  the  establish- 
ment of  this  sporting  tailor  in  the  side  street  off 
Regent  Street;  and  there,  without  much  diffi- 
culty, I  formed  the  acquaintance  of  a  salesman 
of  suave  and  urbane  manners.  With  his  assist- 
ance I  picked  out  a  distinctive,  not  to  say  strik- 
ing, pattern  in  an  effect  of  plaids.  The  goods, 
he  said,  were  made  of  the  wool  of  a  Scotch 
sheep  in  the  natural  colors.  They  must  have 
some  pretty  fancy-looking  sheep  in  Scotland! 

This  done,  the  salesman  turned  me  over  to  a 
cutter,  who  took  me  to  a  small  room  where  in- 
completed  garments  were  hanging  all  about  like 
the  quartered  carcasses  of  animals  in  a  butcher 
shop.  The  cutter  was  a  person  who  dropped 
his  h's  and  then,  catching  himself,  gathered 
them  all  up  again  and  put  them  back  in  his 
speech — in  the  wrong  places.  He  surveyed  me 
extensively  with  a  square  and  a  measuring  line, 
meantime  taking  many  notes,  and  told  me  to 
come  back  on  the  next  day  but  one. 

On  the  day  named  and  at  the  hour  appointed 
I  was  back.  He  had  the  garments  ready  for  me. 
As,  with  an  air  of  pride,  he  elevated  them  for 
my  inspection,  they  seemed  commodious — in- 
deed, voluminous.  I  had  told  him,  when  making 
[  1821 


ENGLISH  CLOTHES  ARE  NOT  MEANT  FOR  AMERICANS 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


them,  to  take  all  the  latitude  he  needed;  but  it 
looked  now  as  though  he  had  got  it  confused  in 
his  mind  with  longitude.  Those  breeches  ap- 
peared to  be  constructed  for  cargo  rather  than 
speed. 

With  some  internal  misgivings  I  lowered  my 
person  into  them  while  he  held  them  in  position, 
and  when  I  had  descended  as  far  as  I  could  go 
without  entirely  immuring  myself,  he  buttoned 
the  dewdabs  at  the  knees;  then  he  went  round 
behind  me  and  cinched  them  in  abruptly,  so 
that  of  a  sudden  they  became  quite  snug  at  the 
waistline;  the  only  trouble  was  that  the  waist- 
line had  moved  close  up  under  my  armpits, 
practically  eliminating  about  a  foot  and  a  half 
of  me  that  I  had  always  theretofore  regarded 
as  indispensable  to  the  general  effect.  Right  in 
the  middle  of  my  back,  up  between  my  shoulder- 
blades  there  was  a  stiff,  hard  clump  of  some- 
thing that  bored  into  my  spine  uncomfortably. 
I  could  feel  it  quite  plainly — lumpy  and  rough. 

"'Ow's  that,  sir?"  he  cheerily  asked  me,  over 
my  shoulder;  but  it  seemed  to  me  there  was  a 
strained,  nervous  note  in  his  voice.  "A  bit  of 
all  right — eh,  sir?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  standing  on  tiptoe  in  an  effort 
to  see  over  the  top,  "you've  certainly  behaved 
very  generously  toward  me — I'll  say  that  much. 
Midships  there  appears  to  be  about  four  or  five 
yards  of  material  I  do  not  actually  need  in  my 
business,  being,  as  it  happens,  neither  a  harem 
favorite  nor  a  professional  sackracer.  And  they 
[185] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


come  up  so  high  I'm  afraid  people  will  think 
the  gallant  coast-guards  have  got  me  in  a  life- 
buoy and  are  bringing  me  ashore  through  the 
surf." 

"You'll  be  wanting  them  a  bit  loose,  sir,  you 
know,"  he  interjected,  still  snuggling  close  be- 
hind me.  "All  our  gentlemen  like  them  loose." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  I  said;  "perhaps  these  things 
are  mere  details.  However,  I  would  be  under 
deep  obligations  to  you  if  you'd  change  'em  from 
barkentine  to  schooner  rig,  and  lower  away  this 
gaff -topsail  which  now  sticks  up  under  my  chin, 
so  that  I  can  luff  and  come  up  in  the  wind  with- 
out capsizing.  And  say,  what  is  that  hard  lump 
between  my  shoulders?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  sir,"  he  said  hastily;  and 
now  I  knew  he  was  flurried.  "I  can  fix  that, 
sir — in  a  jiffy,  sir." 

"Anyhow,  please  come  round  here  in  front 
where  I  can  converse  more  freely  writh  you  on 
the  subject,"  I  said.  I  was  becoming  suspicious 
that  all  was  not  well  with  me  back  there  where 
he  was  lingering.  He  came  reluctantly,  still 
half-embracing  me  with  one  arm. 

Petulantly  I  wrestled  my  form  free,  and  in- 
stantly those  breeches  seemed  to  leap  outward 
in  all  directions  away  from  me.  I  grabbed  for 
them,  and  barely  in  time  I  got  a  grip  on  the 
yawning  top  hem.  Peering  down  the  cavelike 
orifice  that  now  confronted  me  I  beheld  two 
spectral  white  columns,  and  recognized  them  as 
my  own  legs.  In  the  same  instant,  also,  I  real- 
[186] 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


ized  what  that  hard  clump  against  my  spine 
was,  because  when  he  took  his  hand  away  the 
clump  was  gone.  He  had  been  standing  back 
there  with  some  eight  or  nine  inches  of  super- 
fluous waistband  bunched  up  in  his  fist. 

The  situation  was  embarrassing,  and  it  would 
have  been  still  more  embarrassing  had  I  elected 
to  go  forth  wearing  my  breeches  in  their  then 
state,  because,  to  avoid  talk,  he  would  have  had 
to  go  along  too,  walking  immediately  behind  me 
and  holding  up  the  slack.  And  such  a  spectacle, 
with  me  filling  the  tonneau  and  he  back  behind 
on  the  rumble,  would  have  caused  comment 
undoubtedly. 

That  pantsmaker  was  up  a  stump !  He  looked 
reproachfully  at  me,  chidingly  at  the  breeches 
and  sternly  at  the  tapemeasure — which  he  wore 
draped  round  his  neck  like  a  pet  snake — as 
though  he  felt  convinced  one  of  us  was  at  fault, 
but  could  not  be  sure  which  one. 

"I'm  afraid,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  your  figure 
is  changing." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  I  replied  with  a  soft 
sigh.  "As  well  as  I  can  judge  I'm  not  as  tall 
as  I  was  day  before  yesterday  by  at  least  eighteen 
inches.  And  I've  mislaid  my  diaphragm  some- 
where, haven't  I?" 

"'Ave  them  off,  please,  sir,"  he  said  resignedly. 
"I'll  'ave  to  alter  them  to  conform,  sir.  Come 
back  to-morrow." 

I  had  them  off  and  he  altered  them  to  con- 
form, and  I  went  back  on  the  morrow;  in  fact 
[1871 


EUROPE    REVISED 


I  went  back  so  often  that  after  a  while  I  became 
really  quite  attached  to  the  place.  I  felt  almost 
like  a  member  of  the  firm.  Between  calls  from 
me  the  cutter  worked  on  those  breeches.  He 
cut  them  up  and  he  cut  them  down;  he  sheared 
the  back  away  and  shingled  the  front,  and 
shifted  the  buttons  to  and  fro. 

Still,  even  after  all  this,  they  were  not  what 
I  should  term  an  unqualified  success.  When  I 
sat  down  in  them  they  seemed  to  climb  up  on  me 
so  high,  fore  and  aft,  that  I  felt  as  short-waisted 
as  a  crush  hat  in  a  state  of  repose.  And  the  only 
way  I  could  get  my  hands  into  the  hip  pockets  of 
those  breeches  was  to  take  the  breeches  off  first. 
As  ear  muffs  they  were  fair  but  as  hip  pockets 
they  were  failures.  Finally  I  told  him  to  send 
my  breeches,  just  as  they  were,  to  my  hotel 
address — and  I  paid  the  bill. 

I  brought  them  home  with  me.  On  the  day 
after  my  arrival  I  took  them  to  my  regular 
tailor  and  laid  the  case  before  him.  I  tried  them 
on  for  him  and  asked  him  to  tell  me,  as  man  to 
man,  whether  anything  could  be  done  to  make 
those  garments  habitable.  He  called  his  cutter 
into  consultation  and  they  went  over  me  care- 
fully, meantime  uttering  those  commiserating 
clucking  sounds  one  tailor  always  utters  when 
examining  another  tailor's  handiwork.  After 
this  my  tailor  took  a  lump  of  chalk  and  charted 
out  a  kind  of  Queen  Rosamond's  maze  of  cross- 
marks  on  my  breeches  and  said  I  might  leave 
them,  and  that  if  surgery  could  save  them  he 
[1881 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


would  operate.  At  any  rate  he  guaranteed  to 
cut  them  away  sufficiently  to  admit  of  my  breast 
bone  coming  out  into  the  open  once  more. 

In  a  week — about — he  called  me  on  the  tele- 
phone and  broke  the  sad  news  to  me.  My 
English  riding  pants  would  never  ride  me  again. 
In  using  the  shears  he  had  made  a  fatal  slip  and 
had  irreparably  damaged  them  in  an  essential 
location.  However,  he  said  I  need  not  worry, 
because  it  might  have  been  worse;  from  what 
he  had  already  cut  out  of  them  he  had  garnered 
enough  material  to  make  me  a  neat  outing  coat, 
and  by  scrimping  he  thought  he  might  get  a 
waistcoat  to  match. 

I  have  my  English  raincoat;  it  is  still  in  a 
virgin  state  so  far  as  wearing  it  is  concerned. 
I  may  yet  wear  it  and  I  may  not.  If  I  wear  it 
and  you  meet  me  on  the  street — and  we  are 
strangers — you  should  experience  no  great  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  me.  Just  start  in  at  almost 
any  spot  on  the  outer  orbit  and  walk  round  and 
round  as  though  you  were  circling  a  sideshow 
tent  looking  for  a  chance  to  crawl  under  the 
canvas  and  see  the  curiosities  for  nothing;  and 
after  a  while,  if  you  keep  on  walking  as  directed, 
you  will  come  to  a  person  with  a  plain  but  sub- 
stantial face,  and  that  will  be  me  in  my  new 
English  raincoat.  Then  again  I  may  wear  it  to 
a  fancy-dress  ball  sometime.  In  that  case  I 
shall  stencil  Pike's  Peak  or  Bust!  on  the  side- 
breadth  and  go  as  a  prairie  schooner.  If  I  can 
succeed  in  training  a  Missouri  hound-dog  to 
[189] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


trail  along  immediately  behind  me  the  illusion 
will  be  perfect. 

After  these  two  experiences  with  the  English 
tailor  I  gave  up.  Instead  of  trying  to  wear  the 
apparel  of  the  foreigner  I  set  myself  to  the  study 
of  it.  I  would  avoid  falling  into  the  habit  of 
making  comparisons  between  European  institu- 
tions and  American  institutions  that  are  forever 
favorable  to  the  American  side  of  the  argument. 
To  my  way  of  thinking  there  is  only  one  class 
of  tourist- Americans  to  be  encountered  abroad 
worse  than  the  class  who  go  into  hysterical  rap- 
ture over  everything  they  see  merely  because 
it  is  European,  and  that  is  the  class  who  con- 
demn offhand  everything  they  see  and  find 
fault  with  everything  merely  because  it  is  not 
American.  But  I  must  say  that  in  the  matter 
of  outer  habiliments  the  American  man  wins 
the  decision  on  points  nearly  every  whack. 

In  his  evening  garb,  which  generally  fits  him, 
but  which  generally  is  not  pressed  as  to  trouser- 
legs  and  coatsleeves,  the  Englishman  makes  an 
exceedingly  good  appearance.  The  swallow- 
tailed  coat  was  created  for  the  Englishman  and 
he  for  it;  but  on  all  other  occasions  the  well- 
dressed  American  leads  him — leads  the  world, 
for  that  matter.  When  a  Frenchman  attires 
himself  in  his  fanciest  regalia  he  merely  suc- 
ceeds in  looking  effeminate;  whereas  a  German, 
under  similar  circumstances,  bears  a  wadded-in, 
bulged-out,  stuffed-up  appearance.  I  never  saw 
a  German  in  Germany  whose  hat  was  not  too 
[  1901 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


small  for  him — just  as  I  never  saw  a  Japanese 
in  Occidental  garb  whose  hat  was  not  too  large 
for  him — if  it  was  a  derby  hat.  If  a  German  has 
on  a  pair  of  trousers  that  flare  out  at  the  bottom 
and  a  coat  with  angel  sleeves — I  think  that  is 
the  correct  technical  term — and  if  the  front  of 
his  coat  is  spangled  over  with  the  largest-sized 
horn  buttons  obtainable  he  regards  himself  as 
being  dressed  to  the  minute. 

As  for  the  women,  I  believe  even  the  super- 
critical mantuamakers  of  Paris  have  begun  to 
concede  that,  as  a  nation,  the  American  women 
are  the  best-dressed  women  on  earth.  The 
French  women  have  a  way  of  arranging  their 
hair  and  of  wearing  their  hats  and  of  draping 
their  furs  about  their  throats  that  is  artistic 
beyond  comparison.  There  may  be  a  word  in 
some  folks'  dictionaries  fitly  to  describe  it — 
there  is  no  such  word  in  mine;  but  when  you 
have  said  that  much  you  have  said  all  there  is 
to  say.  A  French  woman's  feet  are  not  shod 
well.  French  shoes,  like  all  European  shoes,  are 
clumsy  and  awkward  looking. 

English  children  are  well  dressed  because  they 
are  simply  dressed;  and  the  children  themselves, 
in  contrast  to  the  overdressed,  overly  aggressive 
youngsters  so  frequently  encountered  in  Amer- 
ica, are  mannerly  and  self-effacing,  and  have 
sane,  simple,  childish  tastes.  Young  English 
girls  are  fresh  and  natural,  but  frequently 
frumpy;  and  the  English  married  woman  is  gen- 
erally dressed  in  poor  taste  and  appears  to  have 
[191] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


a  most  limited  wardrobe.  Apparently  the  hus- 
band buys  all  he  wants,  and  then,  if  there  is 
any  money  left  over,  the  wife  gets  it  to  spend 
on  herself. 

Venturing  one  morning  into  a  London  chapel 
I  saw  a  dowdy  little  woman  of  this  type  kneeling 
in  a  pew,  chanting  the  responses  to  the  service. 
Her  blouse  gaped  open  all  the  way  down  her 
back  and  she  was  saying  with  much  fervor, 
"We  have  left  undone  those  things  which  we 
ought  to  have  done."  She  had  too,  but  she 
didn't  know  it,  as  she  knelt  there  unconsciously 
supplying  a  personal  illustration  for  the  spoken 
line. 

The  typical  highborn  English  woman  has  pale 
blue  eyes,  a  fine  complexion  and  a  clear-cut, 
rather  expressionless  face  with  a  profile  sugges- 
tive of  the  portraits  seen  on  English  postage 
stamps  of  the  early  Victorian  period;  but  in  the 
arranging  of  her  hair  any  French  shopgirl  could 
give  her  lessons,  and  any  smart  American  woman 
could  teach  her  a  lot  about  the  knack  of  wearing 
clothes  with  distinction. 

In  England,  that  land  of  caste  which  is  rigid 
enough  to  be  cast  iron,  all  men,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  petty  tradespeople,  dress  to  match  the 
vocations  they  follow.  In  America  no  man  stays 
put — he  either  goes  forward  to  a  circle  above 
the  one  into  which  he  was  born  or  he  slips  back 
into  a  lower  one;  and  so  he  dresses  to  suit  him- 
self or  his  wife  or  his  tailor.  But  in  England  the 
professional  man  advertises  his  calling  by  his 
[1921 


MODES    OF    THE    MOMENT 


clothes.  Extreme  stage  types  are  ordinary  types 
in  London.  No  Southern  silver-tongued  orator 
of  the  old-time,  string-tied,  slouch-hatted,  long- 
haired variety  ever  clung  more  closely  to  his 
official  makeup  than  the  English  barrister  clings 
to  his  spats,  his  shad-bellied  coat  and  his  eye- 
glass dangling  on  a  cord.  At  a  glance  one  knows 
the  medical  man  or  the  journalist,  the  military 
man  in  undress  or  the  gentleman  farmer;  also, 
by  the  same  easy  method,  one  may  know  the 
workingman  and  the  penny  postman.  The 
workingman  has  a  cap  on  his  head  and  a  necker- 
chief about  his  throat,  and  the  legs  of  his 
corduroy  trousers  are  tied  up  below  the  knees 
with  strings — else  he  is  no  workingman. 

When  we  were  in  London  the  postmen  were 
threatening  to  go  on  strike.  From  the  papers 
I  gathered  that  the  points  in  dispute  had  to  do 
with  better  hours  and  better  pay;  but  if  they 
had  been  striking  against  having  to  wear  the 
kind  of  cap  the  British  Government  makes  a 
postman  wear,  their  cause  would  have  had  the 
cordial  support  and  intense  sympathy  of  every 
American  in  town. 

It  remains  for  the  English  clerk  to  be  the 
only  Englishman  who  seeks,  by  the  clothes  he 
wears  in  his  hours  of  ease,  to  appear  as  some- 
thing more  than  what  he  really  is.  Off  duty  he 
fairly  dotes  on  the  high  hat  of  commerce.  Fre- 
quently he  sports  it  in  connection  with  an  ex- 
ceedingly short  and  bobby  sackcoat,  and  trousers 
that  are  four  or  five  inches  too  short  in  the  legs 
[193] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


for  him.  The  Parisian  shopman  harbors  similar 
ambitions — only  he  expresses  them  with  more 
attention  to  detail.  The  noon  hour  arriving, 
the  French  shophand  doffs  his  apron  and  his 
air  of  deference.  He  puts  on  a  high  hat  and  a 
frock  coat  that  have  been  on  a  peg  behind  the 
door  all  the  morning,  gathers  up  his  cane  and 
his  gloves;  and,  becoming  on  the  instant  a 
swagger  and  a  swaggering  boulevardier,  he 
saunters  to  his  favorite  sidewalk  cafe  for  a  cor- 
dial glassful  of  a  pink  or  green  or  purple  drink. 
When  his  little  hour  of  glory  is  over  and  done 
with  he  returns  to  his  counter,  sheds  his  grand- 
eur and  is  once  more  your  humble  and  ingratiat- 
ing servitor. 

In  residential  London  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
one  beholds  some  weird  and  wonderful  costumes. 
On  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  a  sub-suburb  of  a 
Kensington  suburb  I  saw,  passing  through  a 
drab,  sad  side  street,  a  little  Cockney  man  with 
the  sketchy  nose  and  unfinished  features  of  his 
breed.  He  was  presumably  going  to  church, 
for  he  carried  a  large  Testament  under  his  arm. 
He  wore,  among  other  things,  a  pair  of  white 
spats,  a  long-tailed  coat  and  a  high  hat.  It  was 
not  a  regular  high  hat,  either,  but  one  of  those 
trick-performing  hats  which,  on  signal,  will  lie 
doggo  or  else  sit  up  and  beg.  And  he  was  riding 
a  bicycle  of  an  ancient  vintage! 

The   most   impressively    got-up    civilians    in 
England — or  in  the  world,  either,  for  that  mat- 
ter— are  the  assistant  managers  and  the  deputy 
[  1941 


MODES    OF    THE     MOMENT 


cashiers  of  the  big  London  hotels.  Compared 
with  them  the  lilies  of  the  field  are  as  lilies  in 
the  bulb.  Their  collars  are  higher,  their  ties 
are  more  resplendent,  their  frock  coats  more 
floppy  as  to  the  tail  and  more  flappy  as  to  the 
lapel,  than  it  is  possible  to  imagine  until  you 
have  seen  it  all  with  your  own  wondering  eyes. 
They  are  haughty  creatures,  too,  austere  and  full 
of  a  starchy  dignity;  but  when  you  come  to  pay 
your  bill  you  find  at  least  one  of  them  lined  up 
with  the  valet  and  the  waiter,  the  manservant 
and  the  maidservant,  the  ox  and  the  ass,  hand 
out  and  palm  open  to  get  his  tip.  Having  tipped 
him  you  depart  feeling  ennobled  and  uplifted — 
as  though  you  had  conferred  a  purse  of  gold  on 
a  marquis. 


[195] 


CHAPTER  XI 
DRESSED  TO  KILL 


WITH  us  it  is  the  dress  of  the  women 
that  gives  life  and  color  to  the  shifting 
show  of  street  life.  In  Europe  it  is 
the  soldier,  and  in  England  the  private 
soldier  particularly.  The  German  private  soldier 
is  too  stiff,  and  the  French  private  soldier  is  too 
limber,  and  the  Italian  private  soldier  has  been 
away  from  the  dry-cleanser's  too  long;  but  the 
British  Tommy  Atkins  is  a  perfect  piece  of  work 
— what  with  his  dinky  cap  tilted  over  one  eye, 
and  his  red  tunic  that  fits  him  without  blemish 
or  wrinkle,  and  his  snappy  little  swagger  stick 
flirting  the  air.  As  a  picture  of  a  first-class 
fighting  man  I  know  of  but  one  to  match  him, 
and  that  is  a  khaki-clad,  service-hatted  Yankee 
regular — long  may  he  wave! 

There  may  be  something  finer  in  the  way  of 
a  military  spectacle  than  the  change  of  horse- 
guards  at  Whitehall  or  the  march  of  the  foot- 
guards  across  the  green  in  St.  James'  Park  on  a 
fine,  bright  morning — but  I  do  not  know  what 
[1961 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


it  is.  One  day,  passing  Buckingham  Palace,  I 
came  on  a  footguard  on  duty  in  one  of  the  little 
sentry  boxes  just  outside  the  walls.  He  did  not 
look  as  though  he  were  alive.  He  looked  as 
though  he  had  been  stuffed  and  mounted  by  a 
most  expert  taxidermist.  From  under  his  bear- 
skin shako  and  from  over  his  brazen  chin-strap 
his  face  stared  out  unwinking  and  solemn  and 
barren  of  thought. 

I  said  to  myself:  "It  is  taking  a  long  chance, 
but  I  shall  ascertain  whether  this  party  has  any 
human  emotions."  So  I  halted  directly  in  front 
of  him  and  began  staring  fixedly  at  his  midriff 
as  though  I  saw  a  button  unfastened  there  or  a 
buckle  disarranged.  For  a  space  of  minutes  I 
kept  my  gaze  on  him  without  cessation. 

Finally  the  situation  grew  painful;  but  it  was 
not  that  British  grenadier  who  grew  embarrassed 
and  fidgety — it  was  the  other  party  to  the 
transaction.  His  gaze  never  shifted,  his  eyes 
never  wavered — but  I  came  away  feeling  all 
wriggly. 

In  no  outward  regard  whatsoever  do  the 
soldiers  on  the  Continent  compare  with  the 
soldiers  of  the  British  archipelago.  When  he  is 
not  on  actual  duty  the  German  private  is  always 
going  somewhere  in  a  great  hurry  with  some- 
thing belonging  to  his  superior  officer — usually 
a  riding  horse  or  a  specially  heavy  valise.  On 
duty  and  off  he  wears  that  woodenness  of  ex- 
pression— or,  rather,  that  wooden  lack  of  ex- 
pression— which  is  found  nowhere  in  such 
[197] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


flower  of  perfection  as  on  the  faces  of  German 
soldiers  and  German  toys. 

The  Germans  prove  they  have  a  sense  of 
humor  by  requiring  their  soldiers  to  march  on 
parade  with  the  goose  step;  and  the  French 
prove  they  have  none  at  all  by  incasing  the 
defenseless  legs  of  their  soldiers  in  those  foolish 
red-flannel  pants  that  are  manufactured  in  such 
profusion  up  at  the  Pantheon. 

In  the  event  of  another  war  between  the  two 
nations  I  anticipate  a  frightful  mortality  among 
pants — especially  if  the  French  forces  should  be 
retreating.  The  German  soldier  is  not  a  partic- 
ularly good  marksman  as  marksmen  go,  but  he 
would  have  to  be  the  worst  shot  in  the  world  to 
miss  a  pair  of  French  pants  that  were  going 
away  from  him  at  the  time. 

Still,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  there  is  some- 
thing essentially  Frenchy  about  those  red  pants. 
There  is  something  in  their  length  that  instinc- 
tively suggests  Toulon,  something  in  their 
breadth  that  makes  you  think  of  Toulouse. 
I  realize  that  this  joke,  as  it  stands,  is  weak  and 
imperfect.  If  there  were  only  another  French 
seaport  called  Toubagge  I  could  round  it  out 
and  improve  it  structurally. 

If  the  English  private  soldier  is  the  trimmest, 
the  Austrian  officer  is  the  most  beautiful  to  look 
om  An  Austrian  officer  is  gaudier  than  the 
door-opener  of  a  London  cafe  or  the  porter  of 
a  Paris  hotel.  He  achieves  effects  in  gaudiness 
which  even  the  Italian  officer  cannot  equal. 
[1981 


HE  DID  NOT  LOOK  AS  THOUGH  HE  WERE  ALIVE 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


The  Italian  officer  is  addicted  to  cock  feathers 
and  horsetails  on  his  helmet,  to  bits  of  yellow 
and  blue  let  into  his  clothes,  to  tufts  of  red 
and  green  hung  on  him  in  unexpected  and  un- 
accountable spots.  Either  the  design  of  bottled 
Italian  chianti  is  modeled  after  the  Italian 
officer  or  the  Italian  officer  is  modeled  after  the 
bottle  of  chianti — which,  though,  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  say  without  further  study  of  the  sub- 
ject. 

But  the  Austrian  officer  is  the  walking  sunset 
effect  of  creation.  For  color  schemes  I  know  of 
nothing  in  Nature  to  equal  him  except  the 
Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado.  Circus  parades 
are  unknown  in  Austria — they  are  not  missed 
either;  after  an  Austrian  officer  a  street  parade 
would  seem  a  colorless  and  commonplace  thing. 
In  his  uniform  he  runs  to  striking  contrasts — 
canary  yellow,  with  light  blue  facings;  silvers 
and  grays;  bright  greens  with  scarlet  slashings 
— and  so  on. 

His  collar  is  the  very  highest  of  all  high  collars 
and  the  heaviest  with  embroidery;  his  cloak  is 
the  longest  and  the  widest;  his  boots  the  most 
varnished;  his  sword-belt  the  broadest  and  the 
shiniest;  and  the  medals  on  his  bosom  are  the 
most  numerous  and  the  most  glittering.  Alf 
Ringling  and  John  Philip  Sousa  would  take  one 
look  at  him — and  then,  mutually  filled  with  an 
envious  despair,  they  would  go  apart  and  hold 
a  grand  lodge  of  sorrow  together.  Also,  he 
constantly  wears  his  spurs  and  his  sword;  he 
[201  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


wears  them  even  when  he  is  in  a  cafe  in  the 
evening  listening  to  the  orchestra,  drinking  beer 
and  allowing  an  admiring  civilian  to  pay  the 
check— and  that  apparently  is  every  evening. 

There  was  one  Austrian  colonel  who  came 
one  night  into  a  cafe  in  Vienna  where  we  were  and 
sat  down  at  the  table  next  to  us;  and  he  put 
our  eyes  right  out  and  made  all  the  lights  dim 
and  flickery.  His  epaulets  were  two  hair- 
brushes of  augmented  size,  gold-mounted;  his 
Plimsoll  marks  were  outlined  in  bullion,  and 
along  his  garboard  strake  ran  lines  of  gold  braid ; 
but  strangest  of  all  to  observe  was  the  locality 
where  he  wore  what  appeared  to  be  his  service 
stripes.  Instead  of  being  on  his  sleeves  they 
were  at  the  extreme  southern  exposure  of  his 
coattails;  I  presume  an  Austrian  officer  acquires 
merit  by  sitting  down. 

This  particular  officer's  saber  kept  jingling, 
and  so  did  his  spurs,  and  so  did  his  bracelet.  I 
almost  forgot  the  bracelet.  It  was  an  ornate 
affair  of  gold  links  fastened  on  his  left  wrist  with 
a  big  gold  locket,  and  it  kept  slipping  down  over 
his  hand  and  rattling  against  his  cuff.  The 
chain  bracelet  locked  on  the  left  wrist  is  very 
common  among  Austrian  officers;  it  adds  just 
the  final  needed  touch.  I  did  not  see  any  of 
them  carrying  lorgnettes  or  shower  bouquets, 
but  I  think,  in  summer  they  wear  veils. 

One  opportunity  is  afforded  the  European  who 
is  neither  a  soldier  nor  a  hotel  cashier  to  dress 
himself  up  in  comic-opera  clothes — and  that  is 
[2021 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


when  he  a-hunting  goes.  An  American  going 
hunting  puts  on  his  oldest  and  most  serviceable 
clothes — a  European  his  giddiest,  gayest,  glad- 
dest regalia.  We  were  so  favored  by  gracious 
circumstances  as  to  behold  several  Englishmen 
suitably  attired  for  the  chase,  and  we  noted  that 
the  conventional  morning  costume  of  an  English 
gentleman  expecting  to  call  informally  on  a 
pheasant  or  something  during  the  course  of  the 
forenoon  consisted,  in  the  main,  of  a  perfect 
dear  of  a  Norfolk  jacket,  all  over  plaits  and  pock- 
ets, with  large  leather  buttons  like  oak-galls 
adhering  thickly  to  it,  with  a  belt  high  up  under 
the  arms  and  a  saucy  tail  sticking  out  behind; 
knee-breeches;  a  high  stock  collar;  shin-high 
leggings  of  buff  or  white,  and  a  special  hat — a 
truly  adorable  confection  by  the  world's  leading 
he-milliner. 

If  you  dared  to  wear  such  an  outfit  afield  in 
America  the  very  dickeybirds  would  fall  into 
fits  as  you  passed — the  chipmunks  would  lean 
out  of  the  trees  and  just  naturally  laugh  you 
to  death!  But  in  a  land  where  the  woodlands 
are  well-kept  groves,  and  the  undergrowth,  in- 
stead of  being  weedy  and  briery,  is  sweet-scented 
fern  and  gorse  and  bracken,  I  suppose  it  is  all 
eminently  correct. 

Thus  appareled  the  Englishman  goes  to  Scot- 
land to  shoot  the  grouse,  the  gillie,  the  heather 
cock,  the  niblick,  the  haggis  and  other  Scotch 
game.  Thus  appareled  he  ranges  the  preserves 
of  his  own  fat,  fair  shires  in  ardent  pursuit  of 
[203] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  English  rabbit,  which  pretty  nearly  corre- 
sponds to  the  guinea  pig,  but  is  not  so  ferocious; 
and  the  English  hare,  which  is  first  cousin  to 
our  molly  cottontail;  and  the  English  pheasant 
—but  particularly  the  pheasant. 

There  was  great  excitement  while  we  were  in 
England  concerning  the  pheasants.  Either  the 
pheasants  were  preying  on  the  mangel-wurzels 
or  the  mangel-wurzels  were  preying  on  the 
pheasants.  At  any  rate  it  had  something  to  do 
with  the  Land  Bill — practically  everything  that 
happens  in  England  has  something  to  do  with 
the  Land  Bill — and  Lloyd  George  was  in  a  free 
state  of  perspiration  over  it;  and  the  papers 
were  full  of  it  and  altogether  there  was  a  great 
pother  over  it. 

We  saw  pheasants  by  the  score.  We  saw 
them  first  from  the  windows  of  our  railroad 
carriage — big,  beautiful  birds  nearly  as  large  as 
barnyard  fowls  and  as  tame,  feeding  in  the  bare 
cabbage  patches,  regardless  of  the  train  chug- 
ging by  not  thirty  yards  away;  and  later  we 
saw  them  again  at  still  closer  range  as  we  strolled 
along  the  haw-and-holly-lined  roads  of  the  won- 
derful southern  counties.  They  would  scuttle 
on  ahead  of  us,  weaving  in  and  out  of  the  hedge- 
rows; and  finally,  when  we  insisted  on  it  and 
flung  pebbles  at  them  to  emphasize  our  desires, 
they  would  get  up,  with  a  great  drumming  of 
wings  and  a  fine  comet-like  display  of  flowing 
tailfeathers  on  the  part  of  the  cock  birds,  and  go 
booming  away  to  what  passes  in  Sussex  and  Kent 
[204] 


PHEASANT  SHOOTING  IS  THE  LAST  WORD  IN  THE  ENGLISH  SPORTING  CALENDAR 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


for  dense  cover — meaning  by  that  thickets  such 
as  you  may  find  in  the  upper  end  of  Central  Park. 

They  say  King  George  is  one  of  the  best 
pheasant-shots  in  England.  He  also  collects 
postage  stamps  when  not  engaged  in  his  regular 
regal  duties,  such  as  laying  cornerstones  for  new 
workhouses  and  receiving  presentation  addresses 
from  charity  children.  I  have  never  shot  pheas- 
ants; but,  having  seen  them  in  their  free  state 
as  above  described,  and  having  in  my  youth 
collected  postage  stamps  intermittently,  I  should 
say,  speaking  offhand,  that  of  the  two  pursuits 
postage-stamp  collecting  is  infinitely  the  more 
exciting  and  dangerous. 

Through  the  closed  season  the  keepers  mind 
the  pheasants,  protecting  them  from  poachers 
and  feeding  them  on  selected  grain;  but  a  day 
comes  in  October  when  the  hunters  go  forth  and 
take  their  stands  at  spaced  intervals  along  a 
cleared  aisle  flanking  the  woods;  then  the  beat- 
ers dive  into  the  woods  from  the  opposite  side, 
and  when  the  tame  and  trusting  creatures  come 
clustering  about  their  feet  expecting  provender 
the  beaters  scare  them  up,  by  waving  their  um- 
brellas at  them,  I  think,  and  the  pheasants  go 
rocketing  into  the  air — rocketing  is  the  correct 
sporting  term — go  rocketing  into  the  air  like  a 
flock  of  Sunday  supplements;  and  the  gallant 
gunner  downs  them  in  great  multitudes,  always 
taking  due  care  to  avoid  mussing  his  clothes. 
For  after  all  the  main  question  is  not  "What 
did  he  kill?"  but  "How  does  he  look?" 
[207] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


At  that,  I  hold  no  brief  for  the  pheasant — 
except  when  served  with  breadcrumb  dressing 
and  currant  jelly  he  is  no  friend  of  mine.  It  ill 
becomes  Americans,  with  our  own  record  behind 
us,  to  chide  other  people  for  the  senseless  murder 
of  wild  things ;  and  besides,  speaking  personally, 
I  have  a  reasonably  open  mind  on  the  subject 
of  wild-game  shooting.  Myself,  I  shot  a  wild 
duck  once.  He  was  not  flying  at  the  time.  He 
was,  as  the  stockword  goes,  setting.  I  had  no 
self-reproaches  afterward  however.  As  between 
that  duck  and  myself  I  regarded  it  as  an  even 
break — as  fair  for  one  as  for  the  other — because 
at  the  moment  I  myself  was,  as  we  say,  setting 
too.  But  if,  in  the  interests  of  true  sportsman- 
ship, they  must  have  those  annual  massacres  I 
certainly  should  admire  to  see  what  execution  a 
picked  half  dozen  of  American  quail  hunters, 
used  to  snap-shooting  in  the  cane  jungles  and 
brier  patches  of  Georgia  and  Arkansas,  could 
accomplish  among  English  pheasants,  until  such 
time  as  their  consciences  mastered  them  and 
they  desisted  from  slaughter! 

Be  that  as  it  may,  pheasant  shooting  is  the 
last  word  in  the  English  sporting  calendar.  It 
is  a  sport  strictly  for  the  gentry.  Except  in  the 
capacity  of  innocent  bystanders  the  lower  orders 
do  not  share  in  it.  It  is  much  too  good  for  them; 
besides,  they  could  not  maintain  the  correct 
wardrobe  for  it.  The  classes  derive  one  sub- 
stantial benefit  from  the  institution  however. 
The  sporting  instinct  of  the  landed  Englishman 
[208] 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


has  led  to  the  enactment  of  laws  under  which  an 
ordinary  person  goes  smack  to  jail  if  he  is  caught 
sequestrating  a  clandestine  pheasant  bird;  but 
it  does  not  militate  against  the  landowner's  ped- 
dling off  his  game  after  he  has  destroyed  it. 
British  thrift  comes  in  here.  And  so  in  carload 
lots  it  is  sold  to  the  marketmen.  The  result  is 
that  in  the  fall  of  the  year  pheasants  are  cheaper 
than  chickens;  and  any  person  who  can  afford 
poultry  on  his  dinner  table  can  afford  pheasants. 

The  Continental  hunter  makes  an  even  more 
spectacular  appearance  than  his  British  brother. 
No  self-respecting  German  or  French  sportsman 
would  think  of  faring  forth  after  the  incarnate 
brown  hare  or  the  ferocious  wood  pigeon  unless 
he  had  on  a  green  hat  with  a  feather  hi  it;  and 
a  green  suit  to  match  the  hat;  and  swung  about 
his  neck  with  a  cord  a  natty  fur  muff  to  keep 
his  hands  in  between  shots;  and  a  swivel  chair 
to  sit  in  while  waiting  for  the  wild  boar  to  come 
along  and  be  bowled  over. 

Being  hunted  with  a  swivel  chair  is  what 
makes  the  German  wild  boar  wild.  On  occasion, 
also,  the  hunter  wears,  suspended  from  his  belt, 
a  cute  little  hanger  like  a  sawed-off  saber,  with 
which  to  cut  the  throats  of  his  spoil.  Then, 
when  it  has  spoiled  some  more,  they  will  serve 
it  at  a  French  restaurant. 

It  was  our  fortune  to  be  in  France  on  the 

famous  and  ever-memorable  occasion  when  the 

official  stag  of  the  French  Republic  met  a  tragic 

and  untimely  end,  under  circumstances  acutely 

[209] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


distressing  to  all  who  believe  in  the  divinity 
bestowed  prerogatives  of  the  nobility.  The 
Paris  edition  of  the  Herald  printed  the  lament- 
able tale  on  its  front  page  and  I  clipped  the 
account.  I  offer  it  here  in  exact  reproduction, 
including  the  headline: 

HUNTING  INCIDENT  SAID  TO  BE  DUE  TO 
CONSPIRACY 

Further  details  are  given  in  this  morning's 
Figaro  of  the  incident  between  Prince  Murat 
and  M.  Dauchis,  the  mayor  of  Saint-Felix,  near 
Clermont,  which  was  briefly  reported  in  yester- 
day's Herald. 

A  regular  conspiracy  was  organized  by  M. 
Dauchis,  it  is  alleged,  in  order  to  secure  the  stag 
Prince  Murat  and  Comte  de  Valon  were  hunting 
in  the  forest  of  La  Neuville-en-Hetz.  Already, 
at  the  outset  of  the  hunt,  M.  Dauchis,  according 
to  Le  Figaro,  charged  at  a  huntsman  with  a 
little  automobile  in  which  he  was  driving  and 
threatened  to  fire.  Then,  when  the  stag  ran 
into  the  wood,  near  the  Trye  River,  one  of  his 
keepers  shot  it.  In  great  haste  the  animal  was 
loaded  on  another  automobile;  and  before  either 
the  prince  or  Comte  de  Valon  could  interfere  it 
was  driven  away. 

While  Comte  de  Valon  spurred  his  horse  in 
pursuit  Prince  Murat  disarmed  the  man  who 
had  shot  the  stag,  for  he  was  leveling  his  gun 
at  another  huntsman;  but  before  the  gun  was 
wrenched  from  his  hands  he  had  struck  Prince 
d'Essling,  Prince  Murat's  uncle,  across  the  face 
with  the  butt. 

[2101 


BEING  HUNTED  WITH  A  SWIVEL  CHAIR  IS  WHAT  MAKES  THE  GERMAN  WILD  BOAR  WILD 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


Meantime  Comte  de  Valon  had  overtaken  the 
automobile  and,  though  threatened  with  revol- 
vers by  its  occupants,  would  have  recaptured 
the  stag  if  the  men  in  charge  of  it  had  not  taken 
it  into  the  house  of  M.  Dauchis'  father. 

The  only  course  left  for  Prince  Murat  and 
Comte  de  Valon  was  to  lodge  a  complaint  with 
the  police  for  assault  and  for  killing  the  stag, 
which  M.  Dauchis  refused  to  give  back. 

From  this  you  may  see  how  very  much  more 
exciting  stag  hunting  is  in  France  than  in 
America.  Comparing  the  two  systems  we  find 
but  one  point  of  resemblance — namely,  the  at- 
tempted shooting  of  a  huntsman.  In  the  North 
Woods  we  do  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing: 
however  with  us  it  is  not  yet  customary  to 
charge  the  prospective  victim  in  a  little  auto- 
mobile— that  may  come  in  time.  Our  best  bags 
are  made  by  the  stalking  or  still-hunting  method. 
Our  city-raised  sportsman  slips  up  on  his  guide 
and  pots  him  from  a  rest. 

But  consider  the  rest  of  the  description  so 
graphically  set  forth  by  Le  Figaro — the  intrigu- 
ing of  the  mayor;  the  opposing  groups  rampaging 
round,  some  on  hor«seback  and  some  in  automo- 
bile runabouts;  the  intense  disappointment  of 
the  highborn  Prince  Murat  and  his  uncle,  the 
Prince  d'Essling,  and  his  friend,  the  Comte  de 
Valon;  the  implied  grief  of  the  stag  at  being 
stricken  down  by  other  than  noble  hands;  the 
action  of  the  base-born  commoner,  who  shot 
[213] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  stag,  in  striking  the  Prince  d'Essling  across 
his  pained  and  aristocratic  face  with  the  butt — 
exact  type  of  butt  and  name  of  owner  not  being 
given.  Only  in  its  failure  to  clear  up  this  im- 
portant point,  and  in  omitting  to  give  descrip- 
tions of  the  costumes  worn  by  -the  two  princes 
and  the  comte,  is  Le  Figaro's  story  lacking. 
They  must  have  been  wearing  the  very  latest 
creations  too. 

This  last  brings  us  back  again  to  the  subject 
of  clothes  and  serves  to  remind  me  that,  con- 
trary to  a  belief  prevalent  on  this  side  of  the 
water,  good  clothes  cost  as  much  abroad  as  they 
cost  here.  In  England  a  man  may  buy  gloves 
and  certain  substantial  articles  of  haberdashery 
in  silk  and  linen  and  wool  at  a  much  lower  figure 
than  in  America;  and  in  Italy  he  will  find  cro- 
cheted handbags  and  bead  necklaces  are  to  be 
had  cheaper  than  at  home — provided,  of  course,  he 
cares  for  such  things  as  crocheted  handbags  and 
bead  necklaces.  Handmade  laces  and  embroid- 
eries and  sundry  other  feminine  fripperies,  so 
women  tell  me,  are  moderately  priced  on  the 
Continent,  if  so  be  the  tourist-purchaser  steers 
clear  of  the  more  fashionable  shops  and  chases 
the  elusive  bargain  down  a  back  street;  but, 
quality  considered,  other  things  cost  as  much 
in  Europe  as  they  cost  here — and  frequently 
they  cost  more.  If  you  buy  at  the  shopkeeper's 
first  price  he  has  a  secret  contempt  for  you;  if 
you  haggle  him  down  to  a  reasonably  fair  valua- 
tion— say  about  twice  the  amount  a  native 
[214] 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


would  pay  for  the  same  thing — he  has  a  half- 
concealed  contempt  for  you;  if  you  refuse  to 
trade  at  any  price  he  has  an  open  contempt  for 
you;  and  in  any  event  he  dislikes  you  because 
you  are  an  American.  So  there  you  are.  No 
matter  how  the  transaction  turns  out  you  have 
his  contempt;  it  is  the  only  thing  he  parts  with 
at  cost. 

It  is  true  that  you  may  buy  a  suit  of  clothes 
for  ten  dollars  in  London;  so  also  may  you  buy 
a  suit  of  clothes  for  ten  dollars  in  any  Ameri- 
can city,  but  the  reasonably  affluent  American 
doesn't  buy  ten-dollar  suits  at  home.  He  saves 
himself  up  to  indulge  in  that  form  of  idiocy 
abroad.  In  Paris  or  Rome  you  may  get  a  five- 
course  dinner  with  wine  for  forty  cents;  so  you 
may  in  certain  quarters  of  New  York;  but  in 
either  place  the  man  who  can  afford  to  pay  more 
for  his  dinner  will  find  it  to  his  ultimate  well- 
being  to  do  so.  Simply  because  a  boarding 
house  in  France  or  Italy  is  known  as  a  pension 
doesn't  keep  it  from  being  a  boarding  house — 
and  a  pretty  average  bad  one,  as  I  have  been 
informed  by  misguided  Americans  who  tried 
living  at  a  pension,  and  afterwards  put  in  a 
good  deal  of  their  spare  time  regretting  it. 

Altogether,  looking  back  on  my  own  experi- 
ences, I  can  at  this  time  of  writing  think  of  but 
two  common  commodities  which,  when  grade  is 
taken  into  the  equation,  are  found  to  be  radi- 
cally cheaper  in  Europe  than  in  America — these 
two  things  being  taxicabs  and  counts.  For  their 
[215J 


EUROPE    REVISED 


cleanliness  and  smartness  of  aspect,  and  their 
reasonableness  of  meter-fare,  taxicabs  all  over 
Europe  are  a  constant  joy  to  the  traveling 
American.  And,  though  in  the  United  States 
counts  are  so  costly  that  only  the  marriageable 
daughters  of  the  very  wealthy  may  afford  to 
buy  them — and  even  then,  as  the  count  calendars 
attest,  have  the  utmost  difficulty  in  keeping 
them  after  they  are  bought — in  Continental 
Europe  anywhere  one  may  for  a  moderate  price 
hire  a  true-born  count  to  do  almost  any  small 
job,  from  guiding  one  through  an  art  gallery 
to  waiting  on  one  at  the  table.  Counts  make 
indifferent  guides,  but  are  middling  fair  waiters. 
Outside  of  the  counts  and  the  taxicabs,  and 
the  food  in  Germany,  I  found  in  all  Europe  just 
one  real  overpowering  bargain — and  that  was 
in  Naples,  where,  as  a  general  thing,  bargains 
are  not  what  they  seem.  For  the  exceedingly 
moderate  outlay  of  one  lira — Italian — or  twenty 
cents — American — I  secured  this  combination, 
to  wit,  as  follows: 

\f  In  the  background  old  Vesuvius,  like  a  wicked, 
fallen  angel,  wearing  his  plumy,  fumy  halo  of 
sulphurous  hell-smoke;  in  the  middle  distance 
the  Bay  of  Naples,  each  larcenous  wave-crest 
in  it  triple-plated  with  silvern  glory  pilfered 
from  a  splendid  moon;  on  the  left  the  riding 
lights  of  a  visiting  squadron  of  American  war- 
ships; on  the  right  the  myriad  slanted  sails  of 
the  coral-fishers'  boats,  beating  out  toward 
Capri,  with  the  curlew-calls  of  the  fishermen 
[216] 


DRESSED    TO    KILL 


floating  back  in  shrill  snatches  to  meet  a  jangle 
of  bell  and  bugle  from  the  fleet;  in  the  imme- 
diate foreground  a  competent  and  accomplished 
family  troupe  of  six  Neapolitan  troubadours — 
men,  women  and  children — some  of  them  play- 
ing guitars  and  all  six  of  them,  with  fine  mellow 
voices  and  tremendous  dramatic  effect,  singing 
—the  words  being  Italian  but  the  air  good 
American — John  Brown's  Body  Lies  a-Molder- 
ing  in  the  Grave! 

I  defy  you  to  get  more  than  that  for  twenty 
cents  anywhere  in  the  world! 


[217] 


CHAPTER  XII 

NIGHT    LIFE— WITH  THE   LIFE   PART 
MISSING 


IN  our  consideration  of  this  topic  we  come 
first  to  the  night  life  of  the  English.  They 
have  none. 

Passing  along  to  the  next  subject  under 
the  same  heading,  which  is  the  night  life  of  Paris, 
we  find  here  so  much  night  life,  of  such  a  de- 
lightfully transparent  and  counterfeit  character; 
so  much  made-to-measure  deviltry;  so  many 
members  of  the  Madcaps'  Union  engaged  on 
piece-work;  so  much  delicious,  hoydenish  der- 
ring-do, all  carefully  stage-managed  and  expert- 
ly timed  for  the  benefit  of  North  and  South 
American  spenders,  to  the  end  that  the  deliri- 
ousness  shall  abate  automatically  in  exact  pro- 
portion as  the  spenders  quit  spending — in  short, 
so  much  of  what  is  typically  Parisian  that  really 
Paris,  on  its  merits,  is  entitled  to  a  couple  of 
chapters  of  its  own. 

All  of  which  naturally  brings  us  to  the  two 
remaining  great  cities  of  Mid-Europe — Berlin 
[218] 


NIGHT  LIFE 


and  Vienna — and  leads  us  to  the  inevitable  con- 
clusion that  the  Europeans,  in  common  with  all 
other  peoples  on  the  earth,  only  succeed — when 
they  try  to  be  desperately  wicked — in  being 
desperately  dull;  whereas  when  they  seek  their 
pleasures  in  a  natural  manner  they  present  racial 
slants  and  angles  that  are  very  interesting  to 
observe  and  very  pleasant  to  have  a  hand  in. 

Take  the  Germans  now:  No  less  astute  a 
world  traveler  than  Samuel  G.  Blythe  is  spon- 
sor for  the  assertion  that  the  Berliners  follow 
the  night-life  route  because  the  Kaiser  found 
his  capital  did  not  attract  the  tourist  types  to 
the  extent  he  had  hoped,  and  so  decreed  that 
his  faithful  and  devoted  subjects,  leaving  their 
cozy  hearths  and  inglenooks,  should  go  forth  at 
the  hour  when  graveyards  yawn — and  who  could 
blame  them? — to  spend  the  dragging  time  until 
dawn  in  being  merry  and  bright.  So  saying  His 
Majesty  went  to  bed,  leaving  them  to  work 
while  he  slept. 

After  viewing  the  situation  at  first  hand  the 
present  writer  is  of  the  opinion  that  Mr.  Blythe 
was  quite  right  in  his  statements.  Certainly 
nothing  is  more  soothing  to  the  eye  of  the  on- 
looker, nothing  more  restful  to  his  soul,  than  to 
behold  a  group  of  Germans  enjoying  themselves 
in  a  normal  manner.  And  absolutely  nothing 
is  quite  so  ghastly  sad  as  the  sight  of  those  same 
well-flushed,  well-fleshed  Germans  cavorting 
about  between  the  hours  of  two  and  four-thirty 
A.  M.,  trying,  with  all  the  pachydermic  ponder- 
[219] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


osity  of  Barnum's  Elephant  Quadrille,  to  be 
professionally  gay  and  cutuppish.  The  Prus- 
sians must  love  their  Kaiser  dearly.  We  sit  up 
with  our  friends  when  they  are  dead;  they  stay 
up  for  him  until  they  are  ready  to  die  themselves. 

As  is  well  known  Berlin  abounds  in  pleasure 
palaces,  so  called.  Enormous  places  these  are, 
where  under  one  widespreading  roof  are  three 
or  four  separate  restaurants  of  augmented  size, 
not  to  mention  winecellars  and  beer-caves  below- 
stairs,  and  a  dancehall  or  so  and  a  Turkish  bath, 
and  a  bar,  and  a  skating  rink,  and  a  concert  hall 
— and  any  number  of  private  dining  rooms.  The 
t- German  mind  invariably  associates  size  with 
enjoyment. 

To  these  establishments,  after  his  regular  din- 
ner, the  Berliner  repairs  with  his  family,  his 
friend  or  his  guest.  There  is  one  especially 
popular  resort,  a  combination  of  restaurant  and 
vaudeville  theater,  at  which  one  eats  an  excellent 
dinner  excellently  served,  and  between  courses 
witnesses  the  turns  of  a  first-rate  variety  bill, 
always  with  the  inevitable  team  of  American 
coon  shouters,  either  in  fast  colors  or  of  the 
burnt-cork  variety,  sandwiched  into  the  pro- 
gram somewhere. 

Jn  the  Friedrichstrasse  there  is  another  place, 
called  the  Admiralspalast,  which  is  even  more 
attractive.  Here,  inclosing  a  big,  oval-shaped 
ice  arena,  balcony  after  balcony  rises  circling  to 
the  roof.  On  one  of  these  balconies  you  sit,  and 
while  you  dine  and  after  you  have  dined  you 
[220] 


NIGHT    LIFE 


look  down  on  a  most  marvelous  series  of  skating 
stunts.  In  rapid  and  bewildering  succession 
there  are  ballets  on  skates,  solo  skating  numbers, 
skating  carnivals  and  skating  races.  Finally 
scenery  is  slid  in  on  runners  and  the  whole  com- 
pany, in  costumes  grotesque  and  beautiful,  go 
through  a  burlesque  that  keeps  you  laughing 
when  you  are  not  applauding,  and  admiring 
when  you  are  doing  neither;  while  alternating 
lightwaves  from  overhead  electric  devices  flood 
the  picture  with  shifting,  shimmering  tides  of 
color.  It  is  like  seeing  a  Christmas  pantomime  V 
under  an  aurora  borealis.  In  America  we  could 
not  do  these  things — at  least  we  never  have 
done  them.  Either  the  performance  would  be 
poor  or  the  provender  would  be  highly  expen- 
sive, or  both.  But  here  the  show  is  wonderful, 
and  the  victuals  are  good  and  not  extravagantly 
priced,  and  everybody  has  a  bully  time. 

At  eleven-thirty  or  thereabout  the  show  at 
the  ice  palace  is  over — concluding  with  a  push- 
ball match  between  teams  of  husky  maidens 
who  were  apparently  born  on  skates  and  raised 
on  skates,  and  would  not  feel  natural  unless 
they  were  curveting  about  on  skates.  Their 
skates  seem  as  much  a  part  of  them  as  tails  to 
mermaids.  It  is  bedtime  now  for  sane  folks, 
but  at  this  moment  a  certain  madness  which 
does  not  at  all  fit  in  with  the  true  German  tem- 
perament descends  on  the  crowd.  Some  go  up- 
stairs to  another  part  of  the  building,  where 
there  is  a  dancehall  called  the  Admiralskasino; 
[221J 


EUROPE    REVISED 


but,  to  the  truly  swagger,  one  should  hasten  to 
the  Palais  du  Danse  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
big  Metropolpalast  in  the  Behrenstrasse.  This 
place  opens  promptly  at  midnight  and  closes 
promptly  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Inasmuch  as  the  Palais  du  Danse  is  an  insti- 
tution borrowed  outright  from  the  French  they 
have  adopted  a  typically  French  custom  here. 
As  the  visitor  enters — if  he  be  a  stranger— a 
flunky  in  gorgeous  livery  intercepts  him  and 
demands  an  entrance  fee  amounting  to  about 
a  dollar  and  a  quarter  in  our  money,  as  I  recall. 
This  tariff  the  American  or  Englishman  pays, 
but  the  practiced  Berliner  merely  suggests  to 
the  doorkeeper  the  expediency  of  his  taking  a 
long  running  start  and  jumping  off  into  space, 
and  stalks  defiantly  in  without  forking  over  a 
single  pfennig  to  any  person  whatsoever. 

The  Palais  du  Danse  is  incomparably  the 
most  beautiful  ballroom  in  the  world — so  people 
who  have  been  all  over  the  world  agree — and  it 
is  spotlessly  clean  and  free  from  brackish  smells, 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  any  French 
establishment  of  similar  character  I  have  seen. 
At  the  Palais  du  Danse  the  patron  sits  at  a 
table — a  table  with  something  on  it  besides  a 
cloth  being  an  essential  adjunct  to  complete  en- 
joyment of  an  evening  of  German  revelry;  and 
as  he  sits  and  drinks  he  listens  to  the  playing 
of  a  splendid  band  and  looks  on  at  the  dancing. 
Nothing  is  drunk  except  wine — and  by  wine  I 
mainly  mean  champagne  of  the  most  sweetish 
[2221 


BERLIN  ABOUNDS  IN  PLEASUHE  PALACES,  SO  CALLED 


NIGHT    LIFE 


and  sickish  brand  obtainable.  Elsewhere,  for 
one-twentieth  the  cost,  the  German  could  have 
the  best  and  purest  beer  that  is  made;  but  he 
is  out  now  for  the  big  night.  Accordingly  he  satu- 
rates his  tissues  with  the  sugary  bubble-water  of 
France.  He  does  not  join  in  the  dancing  himself. 
The  men  dancers  are  nearly  all  paid  dancers,  I 
think,  and  the  beautifully  clad  women  who 
dance  are  either  professionals,  too,  or  else  be- 
long to  a  profession  that  is  older  even  than 
dancing  is.  They  all  dance  with  a  profound 
German  gravity  and  precision.  Here  is  music  ]f 
to  set  a  wooden  leg  a- jigging;  but  these  couples 
circle  and  glide  and  dip  with  an  incomprehensi- 
ble decorum  and  slowness. 

When  we  were  there,  they  were  dancing  the 
tango  or  one  of  its  manifold  variations.  All 
Europe,  like  all  America,  was,  for  the  moment, 
tango  mad.  While  we  were  in  Paris,  M.  Jean 
Richepin  lectured  before  the  Forty  Immortals 
of  the  Five  Academies  assembled  in  solemn  con- 
clave at  the  Institute  of  France.  They  are 
called  the  Forty  Immortals  because  nobody  can 
remember  the  names  of  more  than  five  of  them. 
He  took  for  his  subject  the  tango — his  motto, 
in  short,  being  one  borrowed  from  the  con- 
ductors in  the  New  York  subway — "Mind  your 
step!" 

While  he  spoke,  which  was  for  an  hour  or 

more,  the  bebadged  and  beribboned  bosoms  of 

his  illustrious  compatriots  heaved  with  emotion; 

their  faces — or  such  parts  of  their  faces  as  were 

[225] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


visible  above  the  whiskerline — flushed  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  most  vociferously  they  applauded 
his  masterly  phrasing  and  his  tracing-out  of  the 
evolution  of  the  tango,  all  the  way  from  its 
Genesis,  as  it  were,  to  its  Revelation.  I  judge 
the  revelation  particularly  appealed  to  them — 
that  part  of  it  appeals  to  so  many. 

After  that  the  tango  seemed  literally  to  trail 
us.  We  could  not  escape  it.  While  we  were  in 
Berlin  the  emperor  saw  fit  officially  to  forbid 
the  dancing  of  the  tango  by  officers  of  his  navy 
and  army.  We  reached  England  just  after  the 
vogue  for  tango  teas  started. 

Naturally  we  went  to  one  of  these  affairs.  It 
took  place  at  a  theater.  Such  is  the  English  way 
of  interpreting  the  poetry  of  motion — to  hire 
some  one  else  to  do  it  for  you,  and — in  order  to 
get  the  worth  of  your  money — sit  and  swizzle 
tea  while  the  paid  performer  is  doing  it.  At  the 
tango  tea  we  patronized  the  tea  was  up  to 
standard,  but  the  dancing  of  the  box-ankled 
professionals  was  a  disappointment.  Beforehand 
I  had  been  told  that  the  scene  on  the  stage  would 
be  a  veritable  picture.  And  so  it  was — Rosa 
Bonheur's  Horse  Fair. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  best  dancer  I  saw  in 
Europe  was  a  performing  trick  pony  in  a  winter 
circus  in  Berlin.  I  also  remember  with  distinct- 
ness of  detail  a  chorusman  who  took  part  in 
a  new  Lehar  opera,  there  in  Berlin.  I  do  not 
remember  him  for  his  dancing,  because  he  was 
no  clumsier  of  foot  than  his  compatriots  in  the 
[226] 


NIGHT     LIFE 


chorus  rank  and  file;  or  for  his  singing,  since  I 
could  not  pick  his  voice  out  from  the  combined 
voices  of  the  others.  I  remember  him  because 
he  wore  spectacles — not  a  monocle  nor  yet  a 
pair  of  nose-glasses,  but  heavy-rimmed,  double- 
lensed  German  spectacles  with  gold  bows  ex- 
tending up  behind  his  ears  like  the  roots  of  an 
old-fashioned  wisdom  tooth. 

Come  to  think  about  it,  I  know  of  no  reason 
why  a  chorusman  should  not  wear  spectacles  if 
he  needs  them  in  his  business  or  if  he  thinks 
they  will  add  to  his  native  beauty;  but  the  spec- 
tacle of  that  bolster-built  youth,  dressed  now  as 
a  Spanish  cavalier  and  now  as  a  Venetian  gon- 
dolier, prancing  about,  with  his  spectacles  gog- 
gling owlishly  out  at  the  audience,  and  once  in 
a  while,  when  a  gleam  from  the  footlights  caught 
on  them,  turning  to  two  red-hot  disks  set  in  the 
middle  of  his  face,  was  a  thing  that  is  going  to 
linger  in  my  memory  when  a  lot  of  more  im- 
portant matters  are  entirely  forgotten. 

Not  even  in  Paris  did  the  tango  experts  com- 
pare with  the  tango  experts  one  sees  in  America. 
At  this  juncture  I  pause  a  moment,  giving  op- 
portunity for  some  carping  critic  to  rise  and 
call  my  attention  to  the  fact  that  perhaps  the 
most  distinguished  of  the  early  school  of  turkey- 
trotters  bears  a  French  name  and  came  to  us  from 
Paris.  To  which  I  reply  that  so  he  does  and  so  he 
did;  but  I  add  then  the  counter-argument  that  he 
came  to  us  by  way  of  Paris,  at  the  conclusion  of 
a  round  trip  that  started  in  the  old  Fourth  Ward 
[227] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  the  Borough  of  Manhattan,  city  of  Greater 
New  York;  for  he  was  born  and  bred  on  the 
East  Side — and,  moreover,  was  born  bearing  the 
name  of  a  race  of  kings  famous  in  the  south  of 
Ireland  and  along  the  Bowery.  And  he  learned 
his  art — not  only  the  rudiments  of  it  but  the 
final  finished  polish  of  it — in  the  dancehalls  of 
Third  Avenue,  where  the  best  slow-time  dancers 
on  earth  come  from.  It  was  after  he  had  ac- 
quired a  French  accent  and  had  Gallicized  his 
name,  thereby  causing  a  general  turning-over  of 
old  settlers  in  the  graveyards  of  the  County 
Clare,  that  he  returned  to  us,  a  conspicuous  fig- 
ure in  the  world  of  art  and  fashion,  and  was  able 
to  get  twenty-five  dollars  an  hour  for  teaching 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  our  richest  families 
to  trip  the  light  tanfastic  go.  At  the  same  time, 
be  it  understood,  I  am  not  here  to  muckrake 
the  past  of  one  so  prominent  and  affluent  in  the 
most  honored  and  lucrative  of  modern  profes- 
sions; but  facts  are  facts,  and  these  particular 
facts  are  quoted  here  to  bind  and  buttress  my 
claim  that  the  best  dancers  are  the  American 
dancers. 

After  this  digression  let  us  hurry  right  back 
to  that  loyal  Berliner  whom  we  left  seated  in 
the  Palais  du  Danse  on  the  Behrenstrasse,  wait- 
ing for  the  hour  of  two  in  the  morning  to  come. 
The  hour  of  two  in  the  morning  does  come;  the 
lights  die  down;  the  dancers  pick  up  their  heavy 
feet — it  takes  an  effort  to  pick  up  those  Conti- 
nental feet — and  quit  the  waxen  floor;  the  Ober- 
[228] 


NIGHT    LIFE 


kellner  comes  round  with  his  gold  chain  of  office 
dangling  on  his  breast  and  collects  for  the  wine, 
and  our  German  friend,  politely  inhaling  his 
yawns,  gets  up  and  goes  elsewhere  to  finish  his 
good  time.  And,  goldarn  it,  how  he  does  dread 
it!  Yet  he  goes,  faithful  soul  that  he  is. 

He  goes,  let  us  say,  to  the  Pavilion  Mascotte 
— no  dancing,  but  plenty  of  drinking  and  music 
and  food — which  opens  at  two  and  stays  open 
until  four,  when  it  shuts  up  shop  in  order  that 
another  place  in  the  nature  of  a  cabaret  may 
open.  And  so,  between  five  and  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  of  the  new  day,  when  the  lady  gar- 
bagemen  and  the  gentlemen  chambermaids  of 
the  German  capital  are  abroad  on  their  several 
duties,  he  journeys  homeward,  and  so,  as  Mr. 
Pepys  says,  to  bed,  with  nothing  disagreeable  to 
look  forward  to  except  repeating  the  same  dose 
all  over  again  the  coming  night.  This  sort  of 
thing  would  kill  anybody  except  a  Prussian — 
for,  mark  you,  between  intervals  of  drinking  he 
has  been  eating  all  night;  but  then  a  Prussian 
has  no  digestion.  He  merely  has  gross  tonnage 
in  the  place  where  his  digestive  apparatus  ought 
to  be. 

The  time  to  see  a  German  enjoying  himself 
is  when  he  is  following  his  own  bent  and  not 
obeying  the  imperial  edict  of  his  gracious  sover- 
eign. I  had  a  most  excellent  opportunity  of 
observing  him  while  engaged  in  his  own  private 
pursuits  of  pleasure  when  by  chance  one  evening, 
in  the  course  of  a  solitary  prowl,  I  bumped  into 
[229] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


a  sort  of  Berlinesque  version  of  Coney  Island, 
with  the  island  part  missing.  It  was  not  out 
in  the  suburbs  where  one  would  naturally  expect 
to  find  such  a  resort.  It  was  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  city,  just  round  the  corner  from  the  cafe 
district,  not  more  than  half  a  mile,  as  the  Blut- 
wurst  flies,  from  Unter  den  Linden.  Even  at 
this  distance  and  after  a  considerable  lapse  of 
time  I  can  still  appreciate  that  place,  though  I 
cannot  pronounce  it;  for  it  had  a  name  consisting 
of  one  of  those  long  German  compound  words 
that  run  all  the  way  round  a  fellow's  face  and 
lap  over  at  the  back,  like  a  clergyman's  collar, 
and  it  had  also  a  subname  that  no  living  person 
could  hope  to  utter  unless  he  had  a  thorough 
German  education  and  throat  trouble.  You 
meet  such  nouns  frequently  in  Germany.  They 
are  not  meant  to  be  spoken;  you  gargle  them. 
To  speak  the  full  name  of  this  park  would  re- 
quire two  able-bodied  persons — one  to  start  it 
off  and  carry  it  along  until  his  larynx  gave  out, 
and  the  other  to  take  it  up  at  that  point  and 
finish  it. 

But  for  all  the  nine-jointed  impressiveness  of 
its  title  this  park  was  a  live,  brisk  little  park 
full  of  sideshow  tents  sheltering  mildly  amusing, 
faked-up  attractions,  with  painted  banners  flap- 
ping in  the  air  and  barkers  spieling  before  the 
entrances  and  all  the  ballyhoos  going  at  full 
blast — altogether  a  creditable  imitation  of  a 
street  fair  as  witnessed  in  any  American  town 
that  has  a  good  live  Elks'  Lodge  in  it. 
[230J 


I  AM  GIVEN  TO  TTNDERSTAND  THAT  VIENNA  NIGHT  LIFE  IS  THE   WILDEST 
OF  ALL  NIGHT  LIFE 


NIGHT    LIFE 


Plainly  the  place  was  popular.  Germans  of 
all  conditions  and  all  ages  and  all  sizes — bull/ 
mainly  the  broader  lasts — were  winding  about 
in  thick  streams  in  the  narrow,  crooked  alleys 
formed  by  the  various  tents.  They  packed 
themselves  in  front  of  each  booth  where  a  free 
exhibition  was  going  on,  and  when  the  free  part 
was  over  and  the  regular  performance  began 
they  struggled  good-naturedly  to  pay  the  ad- 
mission fee  and  enter  in  at  the  door. 

And,  for  a  price,  there  were  freaks  to  be  seen 
who  properly  belonged  on  our  side  of  the  water, 
it  seemed  to  me.  I  had  always  supposed  them 
to  be  exclusively  domestic  articles  until  I  en- 
countered them  here.  There  was  a  regular 
Bosco — a  genuine  Herr  He  Alive  Them  Eats — 
sitting  in  his  canvas  den  entirely  surrounded  by 
a  choice  and  tasty  selection  of  eating  snakes. 
The  orthodox  tattooed  man  was  there,  too,  first 
standing  up  to  display  the  text  and  accompany- 
ing illustrations  on  his  front  cover,  and  then 
turning  round  so  the  crowd  might  read  what  he 
said  on  the  other  side.  And  there  was  many 
another  familiar  freak  introduced  to  our  fathers 
by  Old  Dan  Rice  and  to  us,  their  children, 
through  the  good  offices  of  Daniel's  long  and 
noble  line  of  successors. 

A  seasonable  Sunday  is  a  fine  time;  and  the 
big  Zoological  Garden,  which  is  a  favorite  place 
for  studying  the  Berlin  populace  at  the  diver- 
sions they  prefer  when  left  to  their  own  devices. 
At  one  table  will  be  a  cluster  of  students,  with 
[233] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


their  queer  little  pill-box  caps  of  all  colors,  their 
close-cropped  heads  and  well-shaved  necks,  and 
their  saber-scarred  faces.  At  the  next  table  half 
a  dozen  spectacled,  long-coated  men,  who  look  as 
though  they  might  be  university  professors,  are 
confabbing  earnestly.  And  at  the  next  table  and 
the  next  and  the  next — and  so  on,  until  the 
aggregate  runs  into  big  figures — are  family 
groups — grandsires,  fathers,  mothers,  aunts,  un- 
cles and  children,  on  down  to  the  babies  in  arms. 
By  the  uncountable  thousands  they  spend  the 
afternoon  here,  munching  sausages  and  sipping 
lager,  and  enjoying  the  excellent  music  that  is 
invariably  provided.  At  each  plate  there  is  a 
beer  mug,  for  everybody  is  forever  drinking  and 
nobody  is  ever  drunk.  You  see  a  lot  of  this 
sort  of  thing,  not  only  in  the  parks  and  gardens 
so  numerous  in  and  near  any  German  city  but 
anywhere  on  the  Continent.  Seeing  it  helps 
an  American  to  understand  a  main  difference 
between  the  American  Sabbath  and  the  Euro- 
pean Sunday.  We  keep  it  and  they  spend  it. 

I  am  given  to  understand  that  Vienna  night 
life  is  the  most  alluring,  the  most  abandoned, 
the  most  wicked  and  the  wildest  of  all  night  life. 
Probably  this  is  so — certainly  it  is  the  most 
cloistered  and  the  most  inaccessible.  The  Vien- 
nese does  not  deliberately  exploit  his  night  life 
to  prove  to  all  the  world  that  he  is  a  gay  dog 
and  will  not  go  home  until  morning  though  it 
kill  him — as  the  German  does.  Neither  does  he 
maintain  it  for  the  sake  of  the  coin  to  be  ex- 
[234] 


NIGHT    LIFE 


traded  from  the  pockets  of  the  tourist,  as  do 
the  Parisians.  With  him  his  night  life  is  a  thing 
he  has  created  and  which  he  supports  for  his 
own  enjoyment. 

And  so  it  goes  on — not  out  in  the  open;  not 
press-agented ;  not  advertised ;  but  behind  closed 
doors.  He  does  not  care  for  the  stranger's  pres- 
ence, nor  does  he  suffer  it  either — unless  the 
stranger  is  properly  vouched  for.  The  best  the- 
aters in  Vienna  are  small,  exclusive  affairs, 
privately  supported,  and  with  seating  capacity 
for  a  few  chosen  patrons.  Once  he  has  quit  the 
public  cafe  with  its  fine  music  and  its  bad  wait- 
ers the  uninitiated  traveler  has  a  pretty  lone- 
some time  of  it  in  Vienna.  Until  all  hours  he 
may  roam  the  principal  streets  seeking  that  fillip 
of  wickedness  which  will  give  zest  to  life  and 
provide  him  with  something  to  brag  about  when 
he  gets  back  among  the  home  folks  again.  He 
does  not  find  it.  Charades  would  provide  a 
much  more  exciting  means  of  spending  the 
evening;  and,  in  comparison  with  the  sights 
he  witnesses,  anagrams  and  acrostics  are  posi- 
tively thrilling. 

He  is  tantalized  by  the  knowledge  that  all 
about  him  there  are  big  doings,  but,  so  far  as 
he  is  concerned,  he  might  just  as  well  be  attend- 
ing a  Sunday-school  cantata.  Unless  he  be 
suitably  introduced  he  will  have  never  a  chance 
to  shake  a  foot  with  anybody  or  buy  a  drink 
for  somebody  in  the  inner  circles  of  Viennese 
night  life.  He  is  emphatically  on  the  outside, 
[235  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


denied  even  the  poor  satisfaction  of  looking  in. 
At  that  I  have  a  suspicion,  born  of  casual  ob- 
servation among  other  races,  that  the  Viennese 
really  has  a  better  time  when  he  is  not  trying 
than  when  he  is  trying. 


[236] 


CHAPTER  XIII 
OUR  FRIEND,  THE  ASSASSIN 


NO  taste  of   the  night  life  of  Paris  is 
regarded  as  complete  without  a  visit 
to  an  Apache  resort  at  the  fag-end  of 
it.    For  orderly  and  law-abiding  people 
the  disorderly  and  lawbreaking  people  always 
have   an   immense   fascination   anyhow.     The 
average   person,   though   inclined   to   blink  at 
whatever  prevalence  of  the  criminal  classes  may 
exist  in  his  own  community,  desires  above  all 
things  to  know  at  firsthand  about  the  criminals 
of  other  communities.    In  these  matters  charity 
begins  at  home. 

Every  New  Yorker  who  journeys  to  the  West 
wants  to  see  a  few  roadagents;  conversely  the 
Westerner  sojourning  in  New  York  pesters  his 
New  York  friends  to  lead  him  to  the  haunts  of 
the  gangsters.  It  makes  no  difference  that  in  a 
Western  town  the  prize  hold-up  man  is  more 
apt  than  not  to  be  a  real-estate  dealer;  that  in 
New  York  the  average  run  of  citizens  know  no 
more  of  the  gangs  than  they  know  of  the  Metro- 
[237] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


politan  Museum  of  Art— which  is  to  say,  noth- 
ing at  all.  Human  nature  comes  to  the  surface 
just  the  same. 

In  Paris  they  order  this  thing  differently;  they 
exhibit  the  same  spirit  of  enterprise  that  in  a 
lesser  degree  characterized  certain  promoters  of 
rubberneck  tours  who  some  years  ago  fitted  up 
make-believe  opium  dens  in  New  York's  China- 
town for  the  awed  delectation  of  out-of-town 
spectators.  Knowing  from  experience  that  every 
other  American  who  lands  in  Paris  will  crave  to 
observe  the  Apache  while  the  Apache  is  in  the 
act  of  Apaching  round,  the  canny  Parisians  have 
provided  a  line  of  up-to-date  Apache  dens  within 
easy  walking  distance  of  Montmartre;  and  thith- 
er the  guides  lead  the  round-eyed  tourist  and 
there  introduce  him  to  well-drilled,  carefully 
made-up  Apaches  and  Apachesses  engaged  in 
their  customary  sports  and  pastimes  for  as  long 
as  he  is  willing  to  pay  out  money  for  the 
privilege. 

Being  forewarned  of  this  I  naturally  desired 
to  see  the  genuine  article.  I  took  steps  to 
achieve  that  end.  Suitably  chaperoned  by  a 
trio  of  transplanted  Americans  who  knew  a 
good  bit  about  the  Paris  underworld  I  rode  over 
miles  of  bumpy  cobblestones  until,  along  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  our  taxicab  turned 
into  a  dim  back  street  opening  off  one  of  the 
big  public  markets  and  drew  up  in  front  of  a 
grimy  establishment  rejoicing  in  the  happy  and 
well-chosen  name  of  the  Cave  of  the  Innocents. 
[238] 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

Alighting  we  passed  through  a  small  boozing 
ken,  where  a  frowzy  woman  presided  over  a  bar, 
serving  drinks  to  smocked  marketmen,  and  at 
the  rear  descended  a  steep  flight  of  stone  steps. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  we  came  on  two  gen- 
darmes who  sat  side  by  side  on  a  wooden  bench, 
having  apparently  nothing  else  to  do  except  to 
caress  their  goatees  and  finger  their  swords. 
Whether  the  gendarmes  were  stationed  here  to 
keep  the  Apaches  from  preying  on  the  market- 
men  or  the  marketmen  from  preying  on  the 
Apaches  I  know  not;  but  having  subsequently 
purchased  some  fresh  fruit  in  that  selfsame 
market  I  should  say  now  that  if  anybody  about 
the  premises  needed  police  protection  it  was  the 
Apaches.  My  money  would  be  on  the  market- 
men  every  time. 

Beyond  the  couchant  gendarmes  we  traversed 
a  low,  winding  passage  cut  out  of  stone  and  so 
came  at  length  to  what  seemingly  had  originally 
been  a  winevault,  hollowed  out  far  down  be- 
neath the  foundations  of  the  building.  The 
ceiling  was  so  low  that  a  tall  man  must  stoop 
to  avoid  knocking  his  head  off.  The  place  was 
full  of  smells  that  had  crawled  in  a  couple  of 
hundred  years  before  and  had  died  without 
benefit  of  clergy,  and  had  remained  there  ever 
since.  For  its  chief  item  of  furniture  the  cavern 
had  a  wicked  old  piano,  with  its  lid  missing,  so 
that  its  yellowed  teeth  showed  in  a  perpetual 
snarl.  I  judged  some  of  its  most  important 
vital  organs  were  missing  too — after  I  heard  it 
[239] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


played.  On  the  walls  were  inscribed  such  words 
as  naughty  little  boys  write  on  schoolhouse 
fences  in  this  country,  and  more  examples  of 
this  pleasing  brand  of  literature  were  carved  on 
the  whittled  oak  benches  and  the  rickety  wooden 
stools.  So  much  for  the  physical  furbishings. 

By  rights — by  all  the  hallowed  rules  and  pre- 
cedents of  the  American  vaudeville  stage! — the 
denizens  of  this  cozy  retreat  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth  should  have  been  wearing  high-waisted 
baggy  velvet  trousers  and  drinking  absinthe  out 
of  large  flagons,  and  stabbing  one  another  be- 
tween the  shoulder  blades,  and  ever  and  anon, 
in  the  mystic  mazes  of  the  dance,  playing  crack- 
the-whip  with  the  necks  and  heels  of  their  ador- 
ing lady  friends;  but  such  was  not  found  to  be 
the  case.  In  all  these  essential  and  traditional 
regards  the  assembled  Innocents  were  as  poign- 
antly disappointing  as  the  costers  of  London 
had  proved  themselves. 

According  to  all  the  printed  information  on 
the  subject  the  London  coster  wears  clothes 
covered  up  with  pearl  buttons  and  spends  his 
time  swapping  ready  repartee  with  his  Donah 
or  his  Dinah.  The  costers  I  saw  were  barren  of 
pearl  buttons  and  silent  of  speech;  and  almost 
invariably  they  had  left  their  Donahs  at  home. 
Similarly  these  gentlemen  habitues  of  the  Cave 
of  the  Innocents  wore  few  or  no  velvet  pants, 
and  guzzled  little  or  none  of  the  absinthe.  Their 
favorite  tipple  appeared  to  be  beer;  and  their 
female  companions  snuggled  closely  beside  them. 
[240] 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

We  stayed  among  them  fully  twenty  minutes, 
but  not  a  single  person  was  stabbed  while  we 
were  there.  It  must  have  been  an  off-night  for 
stabbings. 

Still,  I  judged  them  to  have  been  genuine  ex- 
hibits because  here,  for  the  first,  last  and  only 
time  in  Paris,  I  found  a  shop  where  a  stranger 
ready  to  spend  a  little  money  was  not  welcomed 
with  vociferous  enthusiasm.  The  paired-off 
cave-dwellers  merely  scowled  on  us  as  we 
scrouged  past  them  to  a  vacant  bench  in  a  far 
corner.  The  waiter,  though,  bowed  before  us — 
a  shockheaded  personage  in  the  ruins  of  a  dress 
suit — at  the  same  time  saying  words  which  I 
took  to  be  complimentary  until  one  of  my  friends 
explained  that  he  had  called  us  something  that 
might  be  freely  translated  as  a  certain  kind  of 
female  lobster.  Circumscribed  by  our  own  in- 
flexible and  unyielding  language  we  in  America 
must  content  ourselves  with  calling  a  man  a 
plain  lobster;  but  the  limber-tongued  Gaul  goes 
further  than  that — he  calls  you  a  female  lobster, 
which  seems  somehow  or  other  to  make  it  more 
binding. 

However,  I  do  not  really  think  the  waiter 
meant  to  be  deliberately  offensive;  for  presently, 
having  first  served  us  with  beer  which  for  ob- 
vious reasons  we  did  not  drink,  he  stationed  him- 
self alongside  the  infirm  piano  and  rendered  a 
little  ballad  to  the  effect  that  all  men  were 
spiders  and  all  women  were  snakes,  and  all  the 
world  was  a  green  poison;  so,  right  off,  I  knew 
[241] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


what  his  trouble  was,  for  I  had  seen  many  persons 
just  as  morbidly  affected  as  himself  down  in  the 
malaria  belt  of  the  United  States,  where  every- 
body has  liver  for  breakfast  every  morning.  The 
waiter  was  bilious — that  was  what  ailed  him. 

For  the  sake  of  the  conventions  I  tried  to  feel 
apprehensive  of  grave  peril.  It  was  no  use.  I 
felt  safe — not  exactly  comfortable,  but  perfectly 
safe.  I  could  not  even  muster  up  a  spasm  of  the 
spine  when  a  member  of  our  party  leaned  over 
and  whispered  in  my  ear  that  any  one  of  these 
gentry  roundabout  us  would  cheerfully  cut  a 
man's  throat  for  twenty -five  cents.  I  was  sur- 
prised, though,  at  the  moderation  of  the  cost; 
this  was  the  only  cheap  thing  I  had  struck  in 
Paris.  It  was  cheaper  even  than  the  same  job 
is  supposed  to  be  in  the  district  round  Chatham 
Square,  on  the  East  Side  of  New  York,  where  the 
credulous  stranger  so  frequently  is  told  that  he 
can  have  a  plain  murder  done  for  five  dollars 
— or  a  fancy  murder,  with  trimmings,  for  ten; 
rate  card  covering  other  jobs  on  application. 
In  America,  however,  it  has  been  my  misfortune 
that  I  did  not  have  the  right  amount  handy; 
and  here  in  Paris  I  was  handicapped  by  my 
inability  to  make  change  correctly.  By  now  I 
would  not  have  trusted  anyone  in  Paris  to 
make  change  for  me — not  even  an  Apache.  I 
was  sorry  for  this,  for  at  a  quarter  a  head  I 
should  have  been  very  glad  to  engage  a  troupe 
of  Apaches  to  kill  me  about  two  dollars'  worth 
of  cabdrivers  and  waiters.  For  one  of  the  wait- 
[242] 


WE  STATED  TWENTY  MINUTES,   BUT  IT  MUST  HAVE  BEEN 
AN  OFF-NIGHT  FOR  STABBINGS 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

ers  at  our  hotel  I  would  have  been  willing  to  pay 
as  much  as  fifty  cents,  provided  they  killed  him 
very  slowly.  Because  of  the  reasons  named, 
however,  I  had  to  come  away  without  making 
any  deal,  and  I  have  always  regretted  it. 

At  the  outset  of  the  chapter  immediately  pre- 
ceding this  one  I  said  the  English  had  no  night 
life.  This  was  a  slight  but  a  pardonable  mis- 
statement  of  the  actual  facts.  The  Englishman 
has  not  so  much  night  life  as  the  Parisian,  the 
Berliner,  the  Viennese  or  the  Budapest;  but  he 
has  more  night  life  in  his  town  of  London  than 
the  Roman  has  in  his  town  of  Rome.  In  Rome 
night  life  for  the  foreigner  consists  of  going  in- 
doors at  eventide  and  until  bedtime  figuring 
up  how  much  money  he  has  been  skinned  out  of 
during  the  course  of  the  day  just  done — and  for 
the  native  in  going  indoors  and  counting  up  how 
much  money  he  has  skinned  the  foreigner  out 
of  during  the  day  aforesaid.  London  has  its 
night  life,  but  it  ends  early — in  the  very  shank 
of  the  evening,  so  to  speak. 

This  is  due  in  a  measure  to  the  operation  of 
the  early-closing  law,  which,  however,  does  not 
apply  if  you  are  a  bona-fide  traveler  stopping 
at  your  own  inn.  There  the  ancient  tavern  law 
protects  you.  You  may  sit  at  ease  and,  if  so 
minded,  may  drink  and  eat  until  daylight  doth 
appear  or  doth  not  appear,  as  is  generally  the 
case  in  the  foggy  season.  There  is  another  law, 
of  newer  origin,  to  prohibit  the  taking  of  children 
under  a  certain  age  into  a  public  house.  On  the 
[  245  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


passage  of  this  act  there  at  once  sprang  up  a 
congenial  and  lucrative  employment  for  those 
horrible  old-women  drunkards  who  are  so  dis- 
tressingly numerous  in  the  poorer  quarters  of 
the  town.  Regardless  of  the  weather  one  of 
these  bedrabbled  creatures  stations  herself  just 
outside  the  door  of  a  pub.  Along  comes  a  mother 
with  a  thirst  and  a  child.  Surrendering  her  off- 
spring to  the  temporary  care  of  the  hag  the 
mother  goes  within  and  has  her  refreshment  at 
the  bar.  When,  wiping  her  mouth  on  the  back 
of  her  hand,  she  comes  forth  to  reclaim  the 
youngster  she  gives  the  other  woman  a  ha'penny 
for  her  trouble,  and  eventually  the  other  woman 
harvests  enough  ha'penny  bits  to  buy  a  dram 
of  gin  for  herself.  On  a  rainy  day  I  have  seen 
a  draggled,  Sairey-Gamp-looking  female  caring 
for  as  many  as  four  damp  infants  under  the 
drippy  portico  of  an  East  End  groggery. 

It  is  to  the  cafes  that  the  early-closing  law 
chiefly  applies.  The  cafes  are  due  to  close  for 
business  within  half  an  hour  after  midnight. 
When  the  time  for  shutting  up  draws  nigh  the 
managers  do  not  put  their  lingering  patrons  out 
physically.  The  individual's  body  is  a  sacred 
thing,  personal  liberty  being  most  dear  to  an 
Englishman.  It  will  be  made  most  dear  to  you 
too — in  the  law  courts — if  you  infringe  on  it 
by  violence  or  otherwise.  No;  they  have  a  gen- 
tler system  than  that,  one  that  is  free  from 
noise,  excitement  and  all  mussy  work. 

Along  toward  twelve-thirty  o'clock  the  wait- 
[246] 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

ers  begin  going  about,  turning  out  the  lights. 
The  average  London  restaurant  is  none  too 
brightly  illuminated  to  start  with,  being  a  dim 
and  dingy  ill-kept  place  compared  with  the 
glary,  shiny  lobster  palace  that  we  know;  so 
instantly  you  are  made  aware  of  a  thickening 
of  the  prevalent  gloom.  The  waiters  start  in  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room  and  turn  out  a  few  lights. 
Drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  you  they  turn 
out  more  lights;  and  finally,  by  way  of  strength- 
ening the  hint,  they  turn  out  the  lights  imme- 
diately above  your  head,  which  leaves  you  in 
the  stilly  dark  with  no  means  of  seeing  your  food 
even;  unless  you  have  taken  the  precaution  to 
spread  phosphorus  on  your  sandwich  instead  of 
mustard — which,  however,  is  seldom  done.  A 
better  method  is  to  order  a  portion  of  one 
of  the  more  luminous  varieties  of  imported 
cheese. 

The  best  thing  of  all,  however,  is  to  take  your 
hat  and  stick  and  go  away  from  there.  And 
then,  unless  you  belong  to  a  regular  club  or 
carry  a  card  of  admission  to  one  of  the  chartered 
all-night  clubs  that  have  sprung  up  so  abun- 
dantly in  London,  and  which  are  uniformly 
stuffy,  stupid  places  where  the  members  take 
their  roistering  seriously — or  as  a  last  resort, 
unless  you  care  to  sit  for  a  tiresome  hour  or  two 
in  the  grill  of  your  hotel — you  might  as  well  be 
toddling  away  to  bed;  that  is  to  say,  you  might 
as  well  go  to  bed  unless  you  find  the  scenes  in 
the  street  as  worth  while  as  I  found  them. 
[247] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


At  this  hour  London's  droning  voice  has 
abated  to  a  deep,  hoarse  snore;  London  has 
become  a  great,  broody  giant  taking  rest  that 
is  troubled  by  snatches  of  wakefulness;  Lon- 
don's grimy,  lined  face  shows  new  wrinkles  of 
shadow;  and  new  and  unexpected  clumping  of 
colors  in  monotone  and  halftone  appear.  From 
the  massed-up  bulk  of  things  small  detached  bits 
stand  vividly  out:  a  flower  girl  whose  flowers 
and  whose  girlhood  are  alike  in  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf;  a  soldier  swaggering  by,  his  red 
coat  lighting  up  the  grayish  mass  about  him 
like  a  livecoal  in  an  ashheap ;  a  policeman  escort- 
ing a  drunk  to  quarters  for  the  night — not,  mind 
you,  escorting  him  in  a  clanging,  rushing  patrol 
wagon,  which  would  serve  to  attract  public  at- 
tention to  the  distressing  state  of  the  overcome 
one,  but  conveying  him  quietly,  unostentatious- 
ly, surreptitiously  almost,  in  a  small-wheeled 
vehicle  partaking  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a 
baby  carriage  and  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a 
pushcart. 

The  policeman  shoves  this  along  the  road  jail- 
ward  and  the  drunk  lies  at  rest  in  it,  stretched 
out  full  length,  with  a  neat  rubber  bedspread 
drawn  up  over  his  prostrate  form  to  screen  him 
from  drafts  and  save  his  face  from  the  gaze  of 
the  vulgar.  Drunkards  are  treated  with  the 
tenderest  consideration  in  London;  for,  as  you 
know,  Britons  never  will  be  slaves — though  some 
of  them  in  the  presence  of  a  title  give  such 
imitations  of  being  slaves  as  might  fool  even 
[248] 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

so  experienced  a  judge  as  the  late  Simon  Legree; 
and — as  perchance  you  may  also  have  heard — 
an  Englishman's  souse  is  his  castle.  So  in  due 
state  they  ride  him  and  his  turreted  souse  to 
the  station  house  in  a  perambulator. 

From  midnight  to  daylight  the  taxicabs  by 
the  countless  swarm  will  be  charging  about  in 
every  direction — charging,  moreover,  at  the  rate 
of  eight  pence  a  mile.  Think  that  over,  ye 
taxitaxed  wretches  of  New  York,  and  rend  your 
garments,  with  lamentations  loud !  There  is  this 
also  to  be  said  of  the  London  taxi  service — and 
to  an  American  it  is  one  of  the  abiding  marvels 
of  the  place — that,  no  matter  where  you  go,  no 
matter  how  late  the  hour  or  how  outlying  and 
obscure  the  district,  there  is  always  a  trim  taxi- 
cab  just  round  the  next  corner  waiting  to  come 
instantly  at  your  whistle,  and  with  it  a  beggar 
with  a  bleak,  hopeless  face,  to  open  the  cab  door 
for  you  and  stand,  hat  in  hand,  for  the  penny 
you  toss  him. 

In  the  main  centers,  such  as  Oxford  Circus 
and  Piccadilly  Circus  and  Charing  Cross,  and 
along  the  Embankment,  the  Strand  and  Pall 
Mall,  they  are  as  thick  as  fleas  on  the  Missouri 
houn'  dawg  famous  in  song  and  story — the  taxis, 
I  mean,  though  the  beggars  are  reasonably 
thick  also — and  they  hop  like  fleas,  bearing  you 
swiftly  and  surely  and  cheaply  on  your  way. 
The  meters  are  honest,  openfaced  meters;  and 
the  drivers  ask  no  more  than  their  legal  fares 
and  are  satisfied  with  tips  within  reason.  Here 
[249] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


in  America  we  have  the  kindred  arts  of  taxi- 
dermy and  taxicabbery;  one  of  these  is  the  art 
of  skinning  animals  and  the  other  is  the  art  of 
skinning  people.  The  ruthless  taxirobber  of 
New  York  would  not  last  half  an  hour  in  Lon- 
don; for  him  the  jail  doors  would  yawn. 

Oldtime  Londoners  deplored  the  coming  of 
the  taxicab  and  the  motorbus,  for  their  coming 
meant  the  entire  extinction  of  the  driver  of  the 
horse-drawn  bus,  who  was  an  institution,  and 
the  practical  extinction  of  the  hansom  cabby, 
who  was  a  type  and  very  frequently  a  humorist 
too.  But  an  American  finds  no  fault  with  the 
present  arrangement;  he  is  amply  satisfied  with 
it. 

Personally  I  can  think  of  no  more  exciting 
phase  of  the  night  life  of  the  two  greatest  cities 
of  Europe  than  the  stunt  of  dodging  taxicabs. 
In  London  the  peril  that  lurks  for  you  at  every 
turning  is  not  the  result  of  carelessness  on  the 
part  of  the  drivers;  it  is  due  to  the  rules  of  the 
road.  Afoot,  an  Englishman  meeting  you  on 
the  sidewalk  turns,  as  we  do,  to  the  right  hand; 
but  mounted  he  turns  to  the  left.  The  foot 
passenger's  prerogative  of  turning  to  the  right 
was  one  of  the  priceless  heritages  wrested  from 
King  John  by  the  barons  at  Runnymede;  but 
when  William  the  Conqueror  rode  into  the  Bat- 
tle of  Hastings  he  rode  a  left-handed  horse — 
and  so,  very  naturally  and  very  properly,  every- 
thing on  hoof  or  wheel  in  England  has  con- 
sistently turned  to  the  left  ever  since.  I  took 
[250] 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

some  pains  to  look  up  the  original  precedents 
for  these  facts  and  to  establish  them  historically. 

The  system  suits  the  English  mind,  but  it 
is  highly  confusing  to  an  American  who  gets 
into  the  swirl  of  traffic  at  a  crossing — and  every 
London  crossing  is  a  swirl  of  traffic  most  of  the 
time — and  looks  left  when  he  should  look  right, 
and  looks  right  when  he  should  be  looking  left 
until  the  very  best  he  can  expect,  if  he  survive 
at  all,  is  cross-eyes  and  nervous  prostration. 

I  lost  count  of  the  number  of  close  calls  from 
utter  and  mussy  destruction  I  had  while  in  Lon- 
don. Sometimes  a  policeman  took  pity  on  me 
and  saved  me,  and  again,  by  quick  and  frenzied 
leaping,  I  saved  myself;  but  then  the  London 
cabmen  were  poor  marksmen  at  best.  In  front 
of  the  Savoy  one  night  the  same  cabman  in 
rapid  succession  had  two  beautiful  shots  at  me 
and  each  time  missed  the  bull's-eye  by  a  dis- 
qualifying margin  of  inches.  A  New  York- 
chauffeur  who  had  failed  to  splatter  me  all  over 
the  vicinage  at  the  first  chance  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  go  home  afterward  and  look  his 
innocent  little  ones  in  the  face. 

Even  now  I  cannot  decide  in  my  own  mind 
which  is  the  more  fearsome  and  perilous  thing 
—to  be  afoot  in  Paris  at  the  mercy  of  all  the 
maniacs  who  drive  French  motor  cars  or  to  be 
in  one  of  the  motor  cars  at  the  mercy  of  one  of 
the  maniacs.  Motoring  in  Paris  is  the  most 
dangerous  sport  known — just  as  dueling  is  the 
safest.  There  are  some  arguments  to  be  ad- 
[2511 


EUROPE    REVISED 


vanced  in  favor  of  dueling.  It  provides  copy 
for  the  papers  and  harmless  excitement  for  the 
participants — and  it  certainly  gives  them  a 
chance  to  get  a  little  fresh  air  occasionally,  but 
with  motoring  it  is  different.  In  Paris  there  are 
no  rules  of  the  road  except  just  these  two — the 
pedestrian  who  gets  run  over  is  liable  to  prosecu- 
tion, and  all  motor  cars  must  travel  at  top  speed. 

If  I  live  to  be  a  million  I  shall  never  get  over 
shuddering  as  I  think  back  to  a  taxicab  ride  I 
had  in  the  rush  hour  one  afternoon  over  a  route 
that  extended  from  away  down  near  the  site  of 
the  Bastille  to  a  hotel  away  up  near  the  Place 
Vendome.  The  driver  was  a  congenital  mad- 
man, the  same  as  all  Parisian  taxicab  drivers  are; 
and  in  addition  he  was  on  this  occasion  acquiring 
special  merit  by  being  quite  drunk.  This  last, 
however,  was  a  detail  that  did  not  dawn  on  my 
perceptions  until  too  late  to  cancel  the  contract. 
Once  he  had  got  me  safely  fastened  inside  his 
rickety,  creaky  devil-wagon  he  pulled  all  the  stops 
all  the  way  out  and  went  tearing  up  the  crowded 
boulevard  like  a  comet  with  a  can  tied  to  its  tail. 

I  hammered  on  the  glass  and  begged  him  to 
slow  down — that  is,  I  hammered  on  the  glass  and 
tried  to  beg  him  to  slow  down.  For  just  such 
emergencies  I  had  previously  stocked  up  with 
two  French  words — Doucementl  and  Viiel  I 
knew  that  one  of  those  words  meant  speed  and 
the  other  meant  less  speed,  but  in  the  turmoil 
of  the  moment  I  may  have  confused  them 
slightly.  Anyhow,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  I 
[2521 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

yelled  "Vite!"  a  while  and  then  " Doucement! "' 
a  while;  and  then  "Doucement!"  and  "Vite!" 
alternately,  and  mixed  in  a  few  short,  simple 
Anglo-Saxon  cusswords  and  prayers  for  dressing. 
But  nothing  I  said  seemed  to  have  the  least 
effect  on  that  demoniac  scoundrel.  Without 
turning  his  head  he  merely  shouted  back  some- 
thing unintelligible  and  threw  on  more  juice. 

On  and  on  we  tore,  slicing  against  the  side- 
walk, curving  and  jibbing,  clattering  and  careen- 
ing— now  going  on  two  wheels  and  now  on  four 
—while  the  lunatic  shrieked  curses  of  disap- 
pointment at  the  pedestrians  who  scuttled  away 
to  safety  from  our  charging  onslaughts;  and  I 
held  both  hands  over  my  mouth  to  keep  my  heart 
from  jumping  out  into  my  lap. 

I  saw,  with  instantaneous  but  photographic 
distinctness,  a  lady,  with  a  dog  tucked  under 
her  arm,  who  hesitated  a  moment  in  our  very 
path.  She  was  one  of  the  largest  ladies  I  ever 
saw  and  the  dog  under  her  arm  was  certainly 
the  smallest  dog  I  ever  saw.  You  might  say 
the  lady  was  practically  out  of  dog.  I  thought 
we  had  her  and  probably  her  dog  too;  but  she 
fell  back  and  was  saved  by  a  matter  of  half  an 
inch  or  so.  I  think,  though,  we  got  some  of  the 
buttons  off  her  shirtwaist  and  the  back  trimming 
of  her  hat. 

Then  there  was  a  rending,  tearing  crash  as 

we  took  a  fender  off  a  machine  just  emerging 

from    a    cross    street,    but    my    lunatic  never 

checked  up  at  all.    He  just  flung  a  curling  ribbon 

[2531 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  profanity  over  his  shoulder  at  the  other 
driver  and  bounded  onward  like  a  bat  out  of  the 
Bad  Place.  That  was  the  hour  when  my  hair 
began  to  turn  perceptibly  grayer.  And  yet, 
when  by  a  succession  of  miracles  we  had  landed 
intact  at  my  destination,  the  fiend  seemed  to 
think  he  had  done  a  praiseworthy  and  creditable 
thing.  I  only  wish  he  had  been  able  to  under- 
stand the  things  I  called  him— that  is  all  I  wish ! 
It  is  by  a  succession  of  miracles  that  the  mem- 
bers of  his  maniacal  craft  usually  do  dodge  death 
and  destruction.  The  providence  that  watches 
over  the  mentally  deficient  has  them  in  its  care, 
I  guess;  and  the  same  beneficent  influence  fre- 
quently avails  to  save  those  who  ride  behind 
them  and,  to  a  lesser  extent,  those  who  walk 
ahead.  Once  in  a  while  a  Paris  cabman  does 
have  a  lucky  stroke  and  gainer  in  a  foot  traveler. 
In  an  instant  a  vast  and  surging  crowd  convenes. 
In  another  instant  the  road  is  impassably 
blocked.  Up  rushes  a  gendarme  and  worms  his 
way  through  the  press  to  the  center.  He  has  a 
notebook  in  his  hand.  In  this  book  he  enters 
the  gloating  cabman's  name,  his  age,  his  ad- 
dress, and  his  wife's  maiden  name,  if  any;  and 
gets  his  views  on  the  Dreyfus  case;  and  finds 
out  what  he  thinks  about  the  separation  of 
church  and  state;  and  tells  him  that  if  he  keeps 
on  the  way  he  is  headed  he  will  be  getting  the 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  pretty  soon.  They 
shake  hands  and  embrace,  and  the  cabman  cuts 
another  notch  in  his  mudguard,  and  gets  back 
[254  1 


OUR    FRIEND,    THE    ASSASSIN 

on  the  seat  and  drives  on.  Then  if,  by  any 
chance,  the  victim  of  the  accident  still  breathes, 
the  gendarme  arrests  him  for  interfering  with 
the  traffic.  It  is  a  lovely  system  and  sweetly 
typical. 

Under  the  general  classification  of  thrilling 
moments  in  the  night  life  of  Europe  I  should 
like  to  list  a  carriage  trip  through  the  outskirts  of 
Naples  after  dark.  In  the  first  place  the  carriage 
driver  is  an  Italian  driver — which  is  a  shorter 
way  of  saying  he  is  the  worst  driver  living.  His 
idea  of  getting  service  out  of  a  horse  is,  first  to 
snatch  him  to  a  standstill  by  yanking  on  the 
bit  and  then  to  force  the  poor  brute  into  a 
gallop  by  lashing  at  him  with  a  whip  having  a 
particularly  loud  and  vixenish  cracker  on  it;  and 
at  every  occasion  to  whoop  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  In  the  second  place  the  street  is  as  nar- 
row as  a  narrow  alley,  feebly  lighted,  and  has 
no  sidewalks.  And  the  rutty  paving  stones 
which  stretch  from  housefront  to  housefront  are 
crawling  with  people  and  goats  and  dogs  and 
children.  Finally,  to  add  zest  to  the  affair, 
there  are  lots  of  loose  cows  mooning  about — 
for  at  this  hour  the  cowherd  brings  his  stock  to 
the  doors  of  his  patrons.  In  an  Italian  city  the 
people  get  their  milk  from  a  cow,  instead  of 
from  a  milkman  as  with  us.  The  milk  is  de- 
livered on  the  hoof,  so  to  speak. 

The  grown-ups  refuse  to  make  way  for  you 
to  pass  and  the  swarming  young  ones  repay 
you  for  not  killing  them  by  pelting  pebbles  and 
[255] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


less  pleasant  things  into  your  face.  Beggars  in 
all  degrees  of  filth  and  deformity  and  repulsive- 
ness  run  alongside  the  carriage  in  imminent 
danger  from  the  wheels,  begging  for  alms.  If 
you  give  them  something  they  curse  you  for 
not  giving  them  more,  and  if  you  give  them 
nothing  they  spit  at  you  for  a  base  dog  of 
a  heretic. 

But  then,  what  could  you  naturally  expect 
from  a  population  that  thinks  a  fried  cuttlefish 
is  edible  and  a  beefsteak  is  not? 


[256] 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THAT  GAY  PARESIS 


A i  you  walk  along  the  Rue  de  la  Paix* 
and  pay  and  pay,  and  keep  on  paying, 
your  eye  is  constantly  engaged  by  two 
inscriptions  that  occur  and  recur  with 
the  utmost  frequency.    One  of  these  appears  in 
nearly  every  shopwindow  and  over  nearly  every 
shopdoor.     It  says: 
English  Spoken  Here. 

This,  I  may  tell  you,  is  one  of  the  few  abso- 
lutely truthful  and  dependable  statements  en- 
countered by  the  tourist  in  the  French  capital. 
Invariably  English  is  spoken  here.  It  is  spoken 
here  during  all  the  hours  of  the  day  and  until  far 
into  the  dusk  of  the  evening;  spoken  loudly, 
clearly,  distinctly,  hopefully,  hopelessly,  stri- 
dently, hoarsely,  despondently,  despairingly  and 
finally  profanely  by  Americans  who  are  trying 
to  make  somebody  round  the  place  understand 
what  they  are  driving  at. 

*  The  x  being  one  of  the  few  silent  things  in  France. 
[2571 


EUROPE    REVISED 


The  other  inscription  is  carved,  painted  or 
printed  on  all  public  buildings,  on  most  monu- 
ments, and  on  many  private  establishments  as 
well.  It  is  the  motto  of  the  French  Republic, 
reading  as  follows: 

Liberality!  Economy!  Frugality!  f 
The  first  word  of  this — the  Liberality  part — 
is  applicable  to  the  foreigner  and  is  aimed  di- 
rectly at  him  as  a  prayer,  an  injunction  and  a 
command;  while  the  rest  of  it — the  Economy 
and  the  Frugality — is  competently  attended  to 
by  the  Parisians  themselves.  The  foreigner  has 
only  to  be  sufficiently  liberal  and  he  is  as- 
sured of  a  flattering  reception  wheresoever  his 
straying  footsteps  may  carry  him,  whether  in 
Paris  or  in  the  provinces ;  but  wheresoever  those 
feet  of  his  do  carry  him  he  will  find  a  people  dis- 
tinguished by  a  frugality  and  inspired  by  an 
economy  of  the  frugalest  and  most  economical 
character  conceivable.  In  the  streets  of  the 
metropolis  he  is  expected,  when  going  anywhere, 
to  hail  the  fast-flitting  taxicabj,  though  the  resi- 
dents patronize  the  public  bus.  Indeed,  the 
distinction  is  made  clear  to  his  understanding 
from  the  moment  he  passes  the  first  outlying 
fortress  at  the  national  frontier  § — since,  for  the 
looks  of  things  if  for  no  better  reason,  he  must 
travel  first-class  on  the  de-luxe  trains  ||,  whereas 

t  Free  translation. 

t  Stops  on  signal  only — and  sometimes  not  then. 

§  Flag  station. 

||  Diner  taken  off  when  you  are  about  half  through  eating. 

[258] 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


the  Frenchmen  pack  themselves  tightly  but 
frugally  into  the  second-class  and  the  third-class 
compartments. 

Before  I  went  to  France  I  knew  Saint  Denis 
was  the  patron  saint  of  the  French;  but  I  did 
not  know  why  until  I  heard  the  legend  connected 
with  his  death.  When  the  executioner  on  the 
hill  at  Montmartre  cut  off  his  head  the  good 
saint  picked  it  up  and  strolled  across  the  fields 
with  it  tucked  under  his  arm— ^so  runs  the  tale. 
His  head,  in  that  shape,  was  no  longer  of  any 
particular  value  to  him,  but  your  true  Parisian 
is  of  a  saving  disposition.  And  so  the  Paris 
population  have  worshiped  Saint  Denis  ever 
since.  Both  as  a  saint  and  as  a  citizen  he  filled 
the  bill.  He  would  not  throw  anything  away, 
whether  he  needed  it  or  not. 

Paris — not  the  Paris  of  the  art  lover,  nor  the 
Paris  of  the  lover  of  history,  nor  yet  again  the 
Paris  of  the  worth-while  Parisians — but  the 
Paris  which  the  casual  male  visitor  samples,  is 
the  most  overrated  thing  on  earth,  I  reckon — 
except  alligator-pear  salad — and  the  most  costly. 
Its  system  of  conduct  is  predicated,  based,  or- 
ganized and  manipulated  on  the  principle  that 
a  foreigner  with  plenty  of  money  and  no  soul 
will  be  along  pretty  soon.  Hence  by  day  and 
by  night  the  deadfall  is  rigged  and  the  trap  is 
set  and  baited — baited  with  a  spurious  gayety 
and  an  imitation  joyousness;  but  the  joyousness 
is  as  thin  as  one  coat  of  sizing,  and  the  brass 
shines  through  the  plating;  and  behind  the 
[259] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


painted,  parted  lips  of  laughter  the  sharp  teeth 
of  greed  show  in  a  glittering  double  row.  Yet 
gallus  Mr.  Fly,  from  the  U.  S.  A.,  walks  debon- 
airly in,  and  out  conies  Monsieur  Spider,  ably 
seconded  by  Madame  Spiderette;  and  between 
them  they  despoil  him  with  the  utmost  dispatch. 
When  he  is  not  being  mulcted  for  large  sums  he 
is  being  nicked  for  small  ones.  It  is  tip,  brother, 
tip,  and  keep  right  on  tipping. 

I  heard  a  story  of  an  American  who  spent  a 
month  in  Paris,  taking  in  the  sights  and  being 
taken  in  by  them,  and  another  month  motoring 
through  the  country.  At  length  he  reached  the 
port  whence  he  was  to  sail  for  home.  He  went 
aboard  the  steamer  and  saw  to  it  that  his  be- 
longings were  properly  stored;  and  in  the  privacy 
of  his  stateroom  he  sat  down  to  take  an  inven- 
tory of  his  letter  of  credit,  now  reduced  to  a 
wan  and  wasted  specter  of  its  once  plethoric  self. 
In  the  midst  of  casting-up  he  heard  the  signal 
for  departure;  and  so  he  went  topside  of  the 
ship  and,  stationing  himself  on  the  promenade 
deck  alongside  the  gang-plank,  he  raised  his 
voice  and  addressed  the  assembled  multitude  on 
the  pier  substantially  as  follows : 

"If"— these  were  his  words — "if  there  is  a 
single,  solitary  individual  in  this  fair  land  who 
has  not  touched  me  for  something  of  value — if 
there  be  in  all  France  a  man,  woman  or  child 
who  has  not  been  tipped  by  me — let  him,  her  or 
it  speak  now  or  forever  after  hold  their  peace; 
because,  know  ye  all  men  by  these  presents,  I 
[260] 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


am  about  to  go  away  from  here  and  if  I  stay 
in  my  right  mind  I'm  not  coming  back!" 

And  several  persons  were  badly  hurt  in  the 
crush;  but  they  were  believed  afterward  to  have 
been  repeaters. 

I  thought  this  story  was  overdrawn,  but,  after 
traveling  over  somewhat  the  same  route  which 
this  fellow  countryman  had  taken,  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  no  exaggeration,  but 
a  true  bill  in  all  particulars.  On  the  night  of 
our  second  day  in  Paris  we  went  to  a  theater  to 
see  one  of  the  topical  revues,  in  which  Paris  is 
supposed  to  excel;  and  for  sheer  dreariness  and 
blatant  vulgarity  Paris  revues  do,  indeed,  excel 
anything  of  a  similar  nature  as  done  in  either 
England  or  in  America,  which  is  saying  quite 
a  mouthful. 

In  the  French  revue  the  members  of  the  chorus 
reach  their  artistic  limit  in  costuming  when  they 
dance  forth  from  the  wings  wearing  short  and 
shabby  undergarments  over  soiled  pink  fleshings 
and  any  time  the  dramatic  interest  begins  to 
run  low  and  gurgle  in  the  pipes  a  male  comedian 
pumps  it  up  again  by  striking  or  kicking  a 
woman.  But  to  kick  her  is  regarded  as  much  the 
more  whimsical  conceit.  This  invariably  sets 
the  audience  rocking  with  uncontrollable  merri- 
ment. Howsomever,  I  am  not  writing  a  critique 
of  the  merits  of  the  performance.  If  I  were  I 
should  say  that  to  begin  with  the  title  of  the 
piece  was  wrong.  It  should  have  been  called 
Lapsus  Lingerie — signifying  as  the  Latins  would 
[2611 


EUROPE    REVISED 


say,  "A  Mere  Slip."  At  this  moment  I  am 
concerned  with  what  happened  upon  our  en- 
trance. 

At  the  door  a  middle-aged  female,  who  was 
raising  a  natty  mustache,  handed  us  programs. 
I  paid  her  for  the  programs  and  tipped  her. 
She  turned  us  over  to  a  stout  brunette  lady  who 
was  cultivating  a  neat  and  flossy  pair  of  mutton- 
chops.  This  person  escorted  us  down  the  aisle 
to  where  our  seats  were;  so  I  tipped  her.  Along- 
side our  seats  stood  a  third  member  of  the  sister- 
hood, chiefly  distinguished  from  her  confreres  by 
the  fact  that  she  was  turning  out  something  very 
fetching  in  the  way  of  a  brown  Vandyke;  and 
after  we  were  seated  she  continued  to  stand 
there,  holding  forth  her  hand  toward  me,  palm 
up  and  fingers  extended  in  the  national  gesture, 
and  saying  something  in  her  native  tongue  very 
rapidly.  Incidentally  she  was  blocking  the  path 
of  a  number  of  people  who  had  come  down  the 
aisle  immediately  behind  us. 

I  thought  possibly  she  desired  to  see  our 
coupons,  so  I  hauled  them  out  and  exhibited 
them.  She  shook  her  head  at  that  and  gabbled 
faster  than  ever.  It  next  occurred  to  me  that 
perhaps  she  wanted  to  furnish  us  with  programs 
and  was  asking  in  advance  for  the  money  with 
which  to  pay  for  them.  I  explained  to  her  that 
I  already  secured  programs  from  her  friend  with 
the  mustache.  I  did  this  mainly  in  English,  but 
partly  in  French — at  least  I  employed  the  cor- 
rect French  word  for  program,  which  is  pro- 
[262] 


SHE  HAD  NOT  DONE  ANYTHING  TO  EARN  A  TIP  THAT  I  COULD  SEE 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


gramme.  To  prove  my  case  I  pulled  the  two 
programs  from  my  pocket  and  showed  them  to 
her.  She  continued  to  shake  her  head  with  great 
emphasis,  babbling  on  at  an  increased  speed. 
The  situation  was  beginning  to  verge  on  the 
embarrassing  when  a  light  dawned  on  me.  She 
wanted  a  tip,  that  was  it!  She  had  not  done 
anything  to  earn  a  tip  that  I  could  see;  and 
unless  one  had  been  reared  in  the  barbering 
business  she  was  not  particularly  attractive  to 
look  on,  and  even  then  only  in  a  professional 
aspect;  but  I  tipped  her  and  bade  her  begone, 
and  straightway  she  bewent,  satisfied  and  smil- 
ing. From  that  moment  on  I  knew  my  book. 
When  in  doubt  I  tipped  one  person — the  person 
nearest  to  me.  When  in  deep  doubt  I  tipped 
two  or  more  persons.  And  all  was  well. 

On  the  next  evening  but  one  I  had  another 
lesson,  which  gave  me  further  insight  into  the 
habits  and  customs  of  these  gay  and  gladsome 
Parisians.  We  were  completing  a  round  of  the 
all-night  cafes  and  cabarets.  There  were  four 
of  us.  Briefly,  we  had  seen  the  Dead  Rat,  the 
Abbey,  the  Bal  Tabarin,  the  Red  Mill,  Maxim's, 
and  the  rest  of  the  lot  to  the  total  number  of 
perhaps  ten  or  twelve.  We  had  listened  to  bad 
singing,  looked  on  bad  dancing,  sipped  gingerly 
at  bad  drinks,  and  nibbled  daintily  at  bad  food; 
and  the  taste  of  it  all  was  as  grit  and  ashes  in 
our  mouths.  We  had  learned  for  ourselves  that 
the  much-vaunted  gay  life  of  Paris  was  just  as 
sad  and  sordid  and  sloppy  and  unsavory  as  the 
[2651 


EUROPE    REVISED 


so-called  gay  life  of  any  other  city  with  a  lesser 
reputation  for  gay  life  and  gay  livers.  A  scrap 
of  the  gristle  end  of  the  New  York  Tenderloin; 
a  suggestion  of  a  certain  part  of  New  Orleans ;  a 
short  cross  section  of  the  Levee,  in  Chicago; 
a  dab  of  the  Barbary  Coast  of  San  Francisco  in 
its  old,  unexpurgated  days ;  a  touch  of  Piccadilly 
Circus  in  London,  after  midnight,  with  a  top 
dressing  of  Gehenna  the  Unblest — it  had  seemed 
to  us  a  compound  of  these  ingredients,  with  a 
distinctive  savor  of  what  was  essentially  Gallic 
permeating  through  it  like  garlic  through  a 
stew.  We  had  had  enough.  Even  though  we 
had  attended  only  as  onlookers  and  seekers  after 
local  color,  we  felt  that  we  had  a-plenty  of  on- 
looking  and  entirely  too  much  of  local  color; 
we  felt  that  we  should  all  go  into  retreat  for  a 
season  of  self-purification  to  rid  our  persons  of 
the  one  and  take  a  bath  in  formaldehyde  to 
rinse  our  memories  clean  of  the  other.  But  the 
ruling  spirit  of  the  expedition  pointed  out  that 
the  evening  would  not  be  complete  without  a 
stop  at  a  cafe  that  had — so  he  said — an  inter- 
national reputation  for  its  supposed  sauciness 
and  its  real  Bohemian  atmosphere,  whatever 
that  might  be.  Overcome  by  his  argument  we 
piled  into  a  cab  and  departed  thither. 

This  particular  cafe  was  found,  in  its  physical 
aspects,  to  be  typical  of  the  breed  and  district. 
It  was  small,  crowded,  overheated,  underlighted, 
and  stuffy  to  suffocation  with  the  mingled  aro- 
mas of  stale  drink  and  cheap  perfume.  As  we 
[2661 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


entered  a  wrangle  was  going  on  among  a  group 
of  young  Frenchmen  picturesquely  attired  as 
art  students — almost  a  sure  sign  that  they  were 
not  art  students.  An  undersized  girl  dressed  in 
a  shabby  black-and-yellow  frock  was  doing  a 
Spanish  dance  on  a  cleared  space  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  We  knew  her  instantly  for  a  Span- 
ish dancer,  because  she  had  a  fan  in  one  hand 
and  a  pair  of  castanets  in  the  other.  Another 
girl,  dressed  as  a  pierrot,  was  waiting  to  do  her 
turn  when  the  Spanish  dancer  finished.  Weari- 
ness showed  through  the  lacquer  of  thick  cos- 
metic on  her  peaked  little  face.  An  orchestra  of 
three  pieces  sawed  wood  steadily;  and  at  in- 
tervals, to  prove  that  these  were  gay  and 
blithesome  revels,  somebody  connected  with  the 
establishment  threw  small,  party-colored  balls 
of  celluloid  about.  But  what  particularly  caught 
our  attention  was  the  presence  in  a  far  corner 
of  two  little  darkies  in  miniature  dress  suits, 
both  very  wally  of  eye,  very  brown  of  skin,  and 
very  shaved  as  to  head,  huddled  together  there 
as  though  for  the  poor  comfort  of  physical  con- 
tact. As  soon  as  they  saw  us  they  left  their 
place  and  sidled  up,  tickled  beyond  measure  to 
behold  American  faces  and  hear  American 
voices. 

They  belonged,  it  seemed,  to  a  troupe  of 
jubilee  singers  who  had  been  imported  from  the 
States  for  the  delectation  of  French  audiences. 
At  night,  after  their  work  at  a  vaudeville  the- 
ater was  done,  the  members  of  their  company 
[267] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


were  paired  off  and  sent  about  to  the  cafes  to 
earn  their  keep  by  singing  ragtime  songs  and 
dancing  buck  dances.  These  two  were  desper- 
ately, pathetically  homesick.  One  of  them 
blinked  back  the  tears  when  he  told  us,  with 
the  plaintive  African  quaver  in  his  voice,  how 
long  they  had  been  away  from  their  own  country 
and  how  happy  they  would  be  to  get  back  to 
it  again. 

"We  suttin'ly  is  glad  to  heah  somebody  talk- 
in'  de  reg'lar  New  'Nited  States  talk,  same  as 
we  does,"  he  said.  "We  gits  mighty  tired  of 
all  dis  yere  French  jabberin' ! " 

"Yas,  suh,"  put  in  his  partner;  "dey  meks  a 
mighty  fuss  over  cullud  folks  over  yere;  but 
'tain't  noways  lak  home.  I  comes  from  Bum- 
min'ham,  Alabama,  myse'f.  Does  you  gen'le- 
men  know  anybody  in  Bummin'ham?" 

They  were  the  first  really  wholesome  creatures 
who  had  crossed  our  paths  that  night.  They 
crowded  up  close  to  us  and  there  they  stayed 
until  we  left,  as  grateful  as  a  pair  of  friendly 
puppies  for  a  word  or  a  look.  Presently,  though, 
something  happened  that  made  us  forget  these 
small  dark  compatriots  of  ours.  We  had  had 
sandwiches  all  round  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  When 
the  waiter  brought  the  check  it  fell  haply  into 
the  hands  of  the  one  person  in  our  party  who 
knew  French  and — what  was  an  even  more 
valuable  accomplishment  under  the  present  cir- 
cumstances— knew  the  intricate  French  system 
of  computing  a  bill.  He  ran  a  pencil  down  the 
[268] 


TRY   AS  HARD  AS  YOU  PLEASE  TO  SEE  THE  REAL  PARIS,  THE  PARIS 
OF  SMALL,  MEAN  GRAFT  INTRUDES  ON  YOU 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


figures.  Then  he  consulted  the  price  list  on  the 
menu  and  examined  the  label  on  the  neck  of 
the  wine  bottle,  and  then  he  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  one  of  us. 

"Oh,  not  much!"  he  said.  "We  had  a  bottle 
of  wine  priced  at  eighteen  francs  and  they  have 
merely  charged  us  twenty-four  francs  for  it — 
six  francs  overcharge  on  that  one  item  alone. 
The  total  for  the  sandwiches  should  have  been 
six  francs,  and  it  is  put  down  at  ten  francs. 
And  here,  away  down  at  the  bottom,  I  find  a 
mysterious  entry  of  four  francs,  which  seems  to 
have  no  bearing  on  the  case  at  all — unless  it  be 
that  they  just  simply  need  the  money.  I  ex- 
pected to  be  skinned  somewhat,  but  I  object  to 
being  peeled.  I'm  afraid,  at  the  risk  of  appear- 
ing mercenary,  that  we'll  have  to  ask  our  friend 
for  a  recount." 

He  beckoned  the  waiter  to  him  and  fired  a 
volley  of  rapid  French  in  the  waiter's  face.  The 
waiter  batted  his  eyes  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders; then  reversing  the  operation  he  shrugged 
his  eyelids  and  batted  his  shoulderblades,  mean- 
time endeavoring  volubly  to  explain.  Our  friend 
shoved  the  check  into  his  hands  and  waved  him 
away.  He  was  back  again  in  a  minute  with  the 
account  corrected.  That  is,  it  was  corrected  to 
the  extent  that  the  wine  item  had  been  reduced 
to  twenty-one  francs  and  the  sandwiches  to 
eight  francs. 

By  now  our  paymaster  was  as  hot  as  a  hornet. 
His  gorge  rose — his  freeborn,  independent  Amer- 
[271  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


lean  gorge.  It  rose  clear  to  the  ceiling  and  threw 
off  sparks  and  red  clinkers.  He  sent  for  the 
manager.  The  manager  came,  all  bows  and 
graciousness  and  rumply  shirtfront;  and  when 
he  heard  what  was  to  be  said  he  became  all 
apologies  and  indignation.  He  regretted  more 
than  words  could  tell  that  the  American  gentle- 
men who  deigned  to  patronize  his  restaurant 
had  been  put  to  annoyance.  The  gargon — here 
he  turned  and  burned  up  that  individual  with  a 
fiery  sideglance — was  a  debased  idiot  and  the 
misbegotten  son  of  a  yet  greater  and  still  more 
debased  idiot.  The  cashier  was  a  green  hand 
and  an  imbecile  besides.  It  was  incredible,  im- 
possible, that  the  overcharging  had  been  done 
deliberately;  that  was  inconceivable.  But  the 
honor  of  his  establishment  was  at  stake.  They 
should  both,  gargon  and  cashier,  be  discharged 
on  the  spot.  First,  however,  he  would  rectify 
all  mistakes.  Would  monsieur  intrust  the  miser- 
able addition  to  him  for  a  moment,  for  one  short 
moment?  Monsieur  would  and  did. 

This  time  the  amount  was  made  right  and  our 
friend  handed  over  in  payment  a  fifty-franc 
note.  With  his  own  hands  the  manager  brought 
back  the  change.  Counting  it  over,  the  payee 
found  it  five  francs  short.  Attention  being  di- 
rected to  this  error  the  manager  became  more 
apologetic  and  more  explanatory  than  ever,  and 
supplied  the  deficiency  with  a  shiny  new  five- 
franc  piece  from  his  own  pocket.  And  then, 
when  we  had  gone  away  from  there  and  had 
[2721 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


traveled  a  homeward  mile  or  two,  our  friend 
found  that  the  new  shiny  five-franc  piece  was 
counterfeit — as  false  a  thing  as  that  manager's 
false  smile.  We  had  bucked  the  unbeatable 
system,  and  we  had  lost. 

Earlier  that  same  evening  we  spent  a  gloom- 
laden  quarter  of  an  hour  in  another  cafe — one 
which  owes  its  fame  and  most  of  its  American 
customs  to  the  happy  circumstance  that  in  a 
certain  famous  comic  opera  produced  a  few  years 
ago  a  certain  popular  leading  man  sang  a  song 
extolling  its  fascinations.  The  man  who  wrote 
the  song  must  have  had  a  full-flowered  and  glam- 
orous imagination,  for  he  could  see  beauty  where 
beauty  was  not.  To  us  there  seemed  nothing 
particularly  fanciful  about  the  place  except  the 
prices  they  charged  for  refreshments.  However, 
something  unusual  did  happen  there  once.  It 
was  not  premeditated  though;  the  proprietor 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Had  he  known  what 
was  about  to  occur  undoubtedly  he  would  have 
advertised  it  in  advance  and  sold  tickets  for  it. 

By  reason  of  circumstances  over  which  he  had 
no  control,  but  which  had  mainly  to  do  with  a 
locked-up  wardrobe,  an  American  of  convivial 
mentality  was  in  his  room  at  his  hotel  one 
evening,  fairly  consumed  with  loneliness.  Above 
all  things  he  desired  to  be  abroad  amid  the  life 
and  gayety  of  the  French  capital;  but  unfor- 
tunately he  had  no  clothes  except  boudoir 
clothes,  and  no  way  of  getting  any,  either, 
which  made  the  situation  worse.  He  had  al- 
[273] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ready  tried  the  telephone  in  a  vain  effort  to 
communicate  with  a  ready-made  clothing  es- 
tablishment in  the  Rue  St.-Honore.  Naturally 
he  had  failed,  as  he  knew  he  would  before  he 
tried.  Among  Europeans  the  telephone  is  not 
the  popular  and  handy  adjunct  of  every-day 
life  it  is  among  us.  The  English  have  small  use 
for  it  because  it  is,  to  start  with,  a  wretched 
Yankee  invention;  besides,  an  Englishman  in  a 
hurry  takes  a  cab,  as  his  father  before  him  did 
—takes  the  same  cab  his  father  took,  if  possible 
— and  the  Latin  races  dislike  telephone  conversa- 
tions because  the  gestures  all  go  to  absolute 
waste.  The  French  telephone  resembles  a  din- 
gus for  curling  the  hair.  You  wrap  it  round 
your  head,  with  one  end  near  your  mouth  and 
the  other  end  near  your  ear,  and  you  yell  in  it  a 
while  and  curse  in  it  a  while;  and  then  you  slam 
it  down  and  go  and  send  a  messenger.  The  hero 
of  the  present  tale,  however,  could  not  send  a 
messenger — the  hotel  people  had  their  orders  to 
the  contrary  from  one  who  was  not  to  be  diso- 
beyed. 

Finally  in  stark  desperation,  maddened  by  the 
sounds  of  sidewalk  revelry  that  filtered  up  to 
him  intermittently,  he  incased  his  feet  in  bed- 
room slippers,  slid  a  dressing  gown  over  his 
pajamas,  and  negotiated  a  successful  escape 
from  the  hotel  by  means  of  a  rear  way.  Once 
in  the  open  he  climbed  into  a  handy  cab  and 
was  driven  to  the  cafe  of  his  choice,  it  being  the 
same  cafe  mentioned  a  couple  of  paragraphs  ago. 
[274] 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


Through  a  side  entrance  he  made  a  hasty  and 
unhindered  entrance  into  this  place — not  that 
he  would  have  been  barred  under  any  circum- 
stances, inasmuch  as  he  had  brought  a  roll  with 
him.  A  person  with  a  cluster  of  currency  on 
hand  is  always  suitably  dressed  in  Paris,  no 
matter  if  he  has  nothing  else  on;  and  this 
man  had  brought  much  ready  cash  with  him. 
He  could  have  gone  in  fig-leaved  like  Eve,  or 
fig-leafless  like  September  Morn,  it  being  remem- 
bered that  as  between  these  two,  as  popularly 
depicted,  Morn  wears  even  less  than  Eve.  So 
he  whisked  in  handily,  and  when  he  had  hidden 
the  lower  part  of  himself  under  a  table  he  felt 
quite  at  home  and  proceeded  to  have  a  large 
and  full  evening. 

Soon  there  entered  another  American,  and  by 
that  mental  telepathy  which  inevitably  attracts 
like-spirit  to  like-spirit  he  was  drawn  to  the  spot 
where  the  first  American  sat.  He  introduced 
himself  as  one  feeling  the  need  of  congenial  com- 
panionship, and  they  shook  hands  and  exchanged 
names,  and  the  first  man  asked  the  second  man 
to  be  seated;  so  they  sat  together  and  had  some- 
thing together,  and  then  something  more  to- 
gether; and  as  the  winged  moments  flew  they 
grew  momentarily  more  intimate.  Finally  the 
newcomer  said: 

"This  seems  a  pretty  lachrymose  shop.  Sup- 
pose we  go  elsewhere  and  look  for  some  real 
doings." 

"Your  proposition  interests  me  strangely," 
[275] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


said  the  first  man;  "but  there  are  two  reasons 
— both  good  ones — why  I  may  not  fare  forth 
with  you.  Look  under  the  table  and  you'll 
see  'em." 

The  second  man  looked  and  comprehended, 
for  he  was  a  married  man  himself;  and  he 
grasped  the  other's  hand  in  warm  and  comforting 
sympathy. 

"Old  Man,"  he  said — for  they  had  already 
reached  the  Old  Man  stage — "don't  let  that 
worry  you.  Why,  I've  got  more  pants  than  any 
man  with  only  one  set  of  legs  has  any  right  to 
have.  I've  got  pants  that've  never  been  worn. 
You  stay  right  here  and  don't  move  until  I 
come  back.  My  hotel  is  just  round  the  corner 
from  here." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  He  went  and  in 
a  surprisingly  short  time  was  back,  bearing  spare 
trousers  with  him.  Beneath  the  shielding  pro- 
tection of  the  table  draperies  the  succored  one 
slipped  them  on,  and  they  were  a  perfect  fit. 
Now  he  was  ready  to  go  where  adventure  might 
await  them.  They  tarried,  though,  to  finish  the 
last  bottle. 

Over  the  rim  of  his  glass  the  second  man  ven- 
tured an  opinion  on  a  topic  of  the  day.  Instantly 
the  first  man  challenged  him.  It  seemed  to  him 
inconceivable  that  a  person  with  intelligence 
enough  to  have  amassed  so  many  pairs  of  trous- 
ers should  harbor  such  a  delusion.  He  begged 
of  his  new-found  friend  to  withdraw  the  state- 
ment, or  at  least  to  abate  it.  The  other  man 
[276] 


THAT    GAY    PARESIS 


was  sorry,  but  he  simply  could  not  do  it.  He 
stood  ready  to  concede  almost  anything  else, 
but  on  this  particular  point  he  was  adamant;  in 
fact,  adamant  was  in  comparison  with  him  as 
pliable  as  chewing  taffy.  Much  as  he  regretted 
it,  he  could  not  modify  his  assertion  by  so  much 
as  one  brief  jot  or  one  small  tittle  without 
violating  the  consistent  principles  of  a  consistent 
life.  He  felt  that  way  about  it.  All  his  family 
felt  that  way  about  it. 

"Then,  sir,"  said  the  first  man  with  a  rare 
dignity,  "I  regret  to  wound  your  felings;  but 
my  sensibilities  are  such  that  I  cannot  accept, 
even  temporarily,  the  use  of  a  pair  of  trousers 
from  the  loan  collection  of  a  person  who  enter- 
tains such  false  and  erroneous  conceptions.  I 
have  the  pleasure,  sir,  of  wishing  you  good 
night." 

With  these  words  he  shucked  off  the  borrowed 
habiliments  and  slammed  them  into  the  abashed 
bosom  of  the  obstinate  stranger  and  went  back 
to  his  captivity — pantless,  'tis  true,  but  with 
his  honor  unimpaired. 


[2771 


CHAPTER  XV 
SYMPTOMS  OF  THE  DISEASE 


THE  majority  of  these  all-night  places 
in   Paris   are   singularly  and  monoto- 
nously alike.    In  the  early  hours  of  the 
evening  the  musicians  rest  from  their 
labors;  the  regular  habitues  lay  aside  their  air  of 
professional  abandon;  with  true  French  frugality 
the  lights  burn  dim  and  low.    But  anon  sounds 
the  signal  from  the  front  of  the  house.     Strike 
up  the  band;  here  comes  a  sucker!    Somebody 
resembling  ready  money  has  arrived.    The  lights 
flash  on,  the  can-canners  take  the  floor,  the 
gargons  flit  hither  and  yon,  and  all  is  excitement. 
Enter  the  opulent  American  gentleman.    Half 
a  dozen  functionaries  greet  him  rapturously, 
bowing  before  his  triumphant  progress.    Others 
relieve  him  of  his  hat  and  his  coat,  so  that  he 
cannot  escape  prematurely.    A  whole  reception 
committee  escorts  him  to  a  place  of  honor  facing 
the  dancing  arena.    The  natives  of  the  quarter 
stand  in  rows  in  the  background,  drinking  beer 
or  nothing  at  all;  but  the  distinguished  stranger 
[278] 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

sits  at  a  front  table  and  is  served  with  cham- 
pagne, and  champagne  only.  It  is  inferior 
champagne;  but  because  it  is  labeled  American 
Brut — whatever  that  may  denote — and  because 
there  is  a  poster  on  the  bottle  showing  the 
American  flag  in  the  correct  colors,  he  pays 
several  times  its  proper  value  for  it.  From  far 
corners  and  remote  recesses  coryphees  and  court 
jesters  swarm  forth  to  fawn  on  him,  bask  in  his 
presence,  glory  in  his  smile — and  sell  him  some- 
thing. The  whole  thing  is  as  mercenary  as  pass- 
ing the  hat.  Cigarette  girls,  flower  girls  and 
bonbon  girls,  postcard  venders  and  confetti  dis- 
pensers surround  him  impenetrably,  taking  him 
front,  rear,  by  the  right  flank  and  the  left;  and 
they  shove  their  wares  in  his  face  and  will  not 
take  No  for  an  answer;  but  they  will  take  any- 
thing else. 

Two  years  ago  at  a  hunting  camp  in  North 
Carolina,  I  thought  I  had  met  the  creature  with 
the  most  acute  sense  of  hearing  of  any  living 
thing.  I  refer  to  Pearl,  the  mare.  Pearl  was 
an  elderly  mare,  white  in  color  and  therefore 
known  as  Pearl.  She  was  most  gentle  and  kind. 
She  was  a  reliable  family  animal  too — had  a 
colt  every  year — but  in  her  affiliations  she  was 
a  pronounced  reactionary.  She  went  through 
life  listening  for  somebody  to  say  Whoa!  Her 
ears  were  permanently  slanted  backward  on 
that  very  account.  She  belonged  to  the  Whoa 
Lodge,  which  has  a  large  membership  among 
humans. 

[2791 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Riding  behind  Pearl  you  uttered  the  talis- 
manic  word  in  the  thinnest  thread  of  a  whisper 
and  instantly  she  stopped.  You  could  spell 
Whoa!  on  your  fingers,  and  she  would  stop. 
You  could  take  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper 
out  of  your  pocket  and  write  down  Whoa! — 
and  she  would  stop;  but,  compared  with  a  sam- 
ple assortment  of  these  cabaret  satellites,  Pearl 
would  have  seemed  deaf  as  a  post.  Clear  across 
a  hundred-foot  dance-hall  they  catch  the  sound 
of  a  restless  dollar  turning  over  in  the  fob 
pocket  of  an  American  tourist. 

And  they  come  a-running  and  get  it.  Under 
the  circumstances  it  requires  self-hypnotism  of 
a  high  order,  and  plenty  of  it,  to  make  an  Ameri- 
can think  he  is  enjoying  himself.  Still,  he  fre- 
quently attains  to  that  happy  comsummation. 
To  begin  with,  is  he  not  in  Gay  Paree? — as  it  is 
familiarly  called  in  Rome  Center  and  all  points 
West?  He  is!  Has  he  not  kicked  over  the  traces 
and  cut  loose  with  intent  to  be  oh,  so  naughty 
for  one  naughty  night  of  his  life?  Such  are  the 
facts.  Finally,  and  herein  lies  the  proof  con- 
clusive, he  is  spending  a  good  deal  of  money 
and  is  getting  very  little  in  return  for  it.  Well, 
then,  what  better  evidence  is  required?  Any 
time  he  is  paying  four  or  five  prices  for  what  he 
buys  and  does  not  particularly  need  it — or  want 
it  after  it  is  bought — the  average  American  can 
delude  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  is  having  a 
brilliant  evening.  This  is  a  racial  trait  worthy 
of  the  scientific  consideration  of  Professor  Hugo 
[2801 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

Miinsterberg  and  other  students  of  our  national 
psychology.  So  far  the  Miinsterberg  school  has 
overlooked  it — but  the  canny  Parisians  have 
not.  They  long  ago  studied  out  every  quirk  and 
wriggle  of  it,  and  capitalized  it  to  their  own 
purpose.  Liberality!  Economy!  Frugality! — 
there  they  are,  everywhere  blazoned  forth — Lib- 
erality for  you,  Economy  and  Frugality  for 
them.  Could  anything  on  earth  be  fairer  than 
that? 

Even  so,  the  rapturous  reception  accorded  to 
a  North  American  pales  to  a  dim  and  flickery 
puniness  alongside  the  perfect  riot  and  whirl- 
wind of  enthusiasm  which  marks  the  entry  into 
an  all-night  place  of  a  South  American.  Time 
was  when,  to  the  French  understanding,  exuber- 
ant prodigality  and  the  United  States  were  terms 
synonymous;  that  time  has  passed.  Of  recent 
years  our  young  kinsmen  from  the  sister  repub- 
lics nearer  the  Equator  and  the  Horn  have  in- 
vaded Paris  in  numbers,  bringing  their  impulsive 
temperaments  and  their  bankrolls  with  them. 
Thanks  to  these  young  cattle  kings,  these  callow 
silver  princes  from  Argentina  and  Brazil,  from 
Peru  and  from  Ecuador,  a  new  and  more  gor- 
geous standard  for  money  wasting  has  been  estab- 
lished. You  had  thought,  perchance,  there  was 
no  rite  and  ceremonial  quite  so  impressive  as  a 
head  waiter  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  restaurant  squeez- 
ing the  blood  out  of  a  semi-raw  canvasback  in 
a  silver  duck  press  for  a  free  spender  from  Butte 
or  Pittsburgh.  I,  too,  had  thought  that;  but 
[281] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


wait,  just  wait,  until  you  have  seen  a  maitre 
d'hotel  on  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  with  the 
smile  of  the  canary -fed  cat  on  his  face,  standing 
just  behind  a  hide-and-tallow  baron  or  a  guano 
duke  from  somewhere  in  Far  Spiggottyland, 
watching  this  person  as  he  wades  into  the  fresh 
fruit — checking  off  on  his  fingers  each  blushing 
South  African  peach  at  two  francs  the  bite,  and 
each  purple  cluster  of  hothouse  grapes  at  one 
franc  the  grape.  That  spectacle,  believe  me,  is 
worth  the  money  every  time. 

There  is  just  one  being  whom  the  dwellers  of 
the  all-night  quarter  love  and  revere  more  deeply 
than  they  love  a  downy,  squabbling  scion  of 
some  rich  South  American  family,  and  that  is  a 
large,  broad  negro  pugilist  with  a  mouthful  of  gold 
teeth  and  a  shirtfront  full  of  yellow  diamonds. 
To  an  American — and  especially  to  an  American 
who  was  reared  below  Mason  and  Dixon's  justly 
popular  Line — it  is  indeed  edifying  to  behold  a 
black  heavyweight  fourthrater  from  South  Clark 
Street,  Chicago,  taking  his  ease  in  a  smart  cafe, 
entirely  surrounded  by  worshipful  boulevardiers, 
both  male  and  female. 

Now,  as  I  remarked  at  an  earlier  stage  of 
these  observations,  there  is  another  Paris  be- 
sides this — a  Paris  of  history,  of  art,  of  architec- 
ture, of  literature,  of  refinement;  a  Paris  inhab- 
ited by  a  people  with  a  pride  in  their  past,  a 
pluck  in  their  present,  and  a  faith  in  their  future; 
a  Paris  of  kindly  aristocrats,  of  thrifty,  pious 
plain  people;  a  Paris  of  students  and  savants  and 
I  282  1 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

scientists,  of  great  actors  and  great  scientists 
and  great  dramatists.  There  is  one  Paris  that 
might  well  be  burned  to  its  unclean  roots,  and 
another  Paris  that  will  be  glorified  in  the  minds 
of  mankind  forever.  And  it  would  be  as  unfair 
to  say  that  the  Paris  which  comes  flaunting  its 
tinsel  of  vice  and  pinchbeck  villainy  in  the  casual 
tourist's  face  is  the  real  Paris,  as  it  would  be  for 
a  man  from  the  interior  of  the  United  States  to 
visit  New  York  and,  after  interviewing  one 
Bowery  bouncer,  one  Tenderloin  cabman,  and 
one  Broadway  ticket  speculator,  go  back  home 
and  say  he  had  met  fit  representatives  of  the 
predominant  classes  of  New  York  society  and 
had  found  them  unfit.  Yes,  it  would  be  even 
more  unfair.  For  the  alleged  gay  life  of  New 
York  touches  at  some  point  of  contact  or  other 
the  lives  of  most  New  Yorkers,  whereas  in  Paris 
there  are  numbers  of  sane  and  decent  folks  who 
seem  to  know  nothing  except  by  hearsay  of  what 
goes  on  after  dark  in  the  Montmartre  district. 
Besides,  no  man  in  the  course  of  a  short  and 
crowded  stay  may  hope  to  get  under  the  skin 
of  any  community,  great  or  small.  He  merely 
skims  its  surface  cuticle;  he  sees  no  deeper  than, 
the  pores  and  the  hair-roots.  The  arteries,  the 
frame,  the  real  tissue-structure  remain  hidden 
to  him.  Therefore  the  pity  seems  all  the  greater 
that,  to  the  world  at  large,  the  bad  Paris  should 
mean  all  Paris.  It  is  that  other  and  more  whole- 
some Paris  which  one  sees — a  light-hearted, 
good-natured,  polite  and  courteous  Paris — when 
[283] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


one,  biding  his  time  and  choosing  the  proper 
hour  and  proper  place,  goes  abroad  to  seek  it  out. 
For  the  stranger  who  does  at  least  a  part  of  his 
sight-seeing  after  a  rational  and  orderly  fashion, 
there  are  pictures  that  will  live  in  the  memory 
always:  the  Madeleine,  with  the  flower  market 
just  alongside;  the  green  and  gold  woods  of  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne;  the  grandstand  of  the  race- 
course at  Longchamp  on  a  fair  afternoon  in  the 
autumn;  the  Opera  at  night;  the  promenade  of 
the  Champs-Elysees  on  a  Sunday  morning  after 
church;  the  Gardens  of  the  Tuileries;  the  won- 
derful circling  plaza  of  the  Place  Vendome, 
where  one  may  spend  a  happy  hour  if  the 
maniacal  taxi-drivers  deign  to  spare  one's  life 
for  so  unaccountably  long  a  period;  the  arcades 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  with  their  exquisite  shops, 
where  every  other  shop  is  a  jeweler's  shop  and 
every  jeweler's  shop  is  just  like  every  other 
jeweler's  shop — which  fact  ceases  to  cause  won- 
der when  one  learns  that,  with  a  few  notable 
exceptions,  all  these  shops  carry  their  wares  on 
commission  from  the  stocks  of  the  same  manu- 
facturing jewelers;  the  old  He  de  la  Cite,  with 
the  second-hand  bookstalls  stretching  along  the 
quay,  and  the  Seine  placidly  meandering  be- 
tween its  man-made,  man-ruled  banks.  Days 
spent  here  seem  short  days;  but  that  may  be 
due  in  some  part  to  the  difference  between  our 
time  and  theirs.  In  Paris,  you  know,  the  day 
ends  five  or  six  hours  earlier  than  it  does  in 
America. 

[284] 


THE  PARIS  WHICH  THE  CASUAL  MALE  VISITOR  SAMPLES  IS  THE  MOST  OVERRATED 
THING  ON  EARTH — AND  THE  MOST  COSTLY 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

The  two  Palaces  of  Fine  Arts  are  fine  enough; 
and  finer  still,  on  beyond  them,  is  the  great  Pont 
Alexandre  III;  but,  to  my  untutored  instincts, 
all  three  of  these,  with  their  dumpings  of  flag 
standards  and  their  grouping  of  marble  allego- 
ries, which  are  so  aching-white  to  the  eye  in 
the  sunlight,  seemed  overly  suggestive  of  a 
World's  Fair  as  we  know  such  things  in  America. 
Seeing  them  I  knew  where  the  architects  who 
designed  the  main  approaches  and  the  courts  of 
honor  for  all  our  big  expositions  got  their  notions 
for  color  schemes  and  statuary  effects.  I  liked 
better  those  two  ancient  triumphal  arches  of 
St.-M artin  and  St.-Denis  on  the  Boulevard  St.- 
Denis,  and  much  better  even  than  these  the 
tremendous  sweep  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
which  is  one  of  the  finest  squares  in  the  world, 
and  the  one  with  the  grimmest,  bloodiest  his- 
tory, I  reckon. 

The  Paris  to  which  these  things  properly  ap- 
pertain is  at  its  very  best  and  brightest  on  a 
sunny  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  parks  where 
well-to-do  people  drive  or  ride,  and  their  chil- 
dren play  among  the  trees  under  the  eyes  of 
nursemaids  in  the  quaint  costumes  of  Normandy, 
though,  for  all  I  know,  it  may  be  Picardy.  Else- 
where in  these  parks  the  not-so-well-to-do  gather 
in  great  numbers;  some  drinking  harmless  sirupy 
drinks  at  the  gay  little  refreshment  kiosks;  some 
packing  themselves  about  the  man  who  has 
tamed  the  tree  sparrows  until  they  come  at  his 
call  and  hive  in  chattering,  fluttering  swarms  on 
[2871 


EUROPE    REVISED 


his  head  and  his  arms  and  shoulders;  some  ap- 
plauding a  favorite  game  of  the  middle  classes 
that  is  being  played  in  every  wide  and  open 
space.  I  do  not  know  its  name — could  not  find 
anybody  who  seemed  to  know  its  name — but 
this  game  is  a  kind  of  glorified  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  played  with  a  small,  hard  ball  capa- 
ble of  being  driven  high  and  far  by  smartly 
administered  strokes  of  a  hide-headed,  rimmed 
device  shaped  like  a  tambourine.  It  would  seem 
also  to  be  requisite  to  its  proper  playing  that 
each  player  shall  have  a  red  coat  and  a  full 
spade  beard,  and  a  tremendous  amount  of  speed 
and  skill.  If  the  ball  gets  lost  in  anybody's 
whiskers  I  think  it  counts  ten  for  the  opposing 
side;  but  I  do  not  know  the  other  rules. 

A  certain  indefinable,  unmistakably  Gallic 
flavor  or  piquancy  savors  the  life  of  the  people; 
it  disappears  only  when  they  cease  to  be  their 
own  natural  selves.  A  woman  novelist,  Ameri- 
can by  birth,  but  a  resident  of  several  years  in 
Paris,  told  me  a  story  illustrative  of  this.  The 
incident  she  narrated  was  so  typical  that  it 
could  never  have  happened  except  in  Paris,  I 
thought.  She  said  she  was  one  of  a  party  who 
went  one  night  to  dine  at  a  little  cafe  much  fre- 
quented by  artists  and  art  students.  The  host 
was  himself  an  artist  of  reputation.  As  they 
dined  there  entered  a  tall,  gloomy  figure  of  a 
man  with  a  long,  ugly  face  full  of  flexible  wrin- 
kles; such  a  figure  and  such  a  face  as  instantly 
commanded  their  attention.  This  man  slid  into 
[288] 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

a  seat  at  a  table  near  their  table  and  had  a 
frugal  meal.  He  had  reached  the  stage  of  demi- 
tasse  and  cigarette  when  he  laid  down  cup  and 
cigarette  and,  fetching  a  bit  of  cardboard  and  a 
crayon  out  of  his  pocket,  began  putting  down 
lines  and  shadings;  between  strokes  he  covertly 
studied  the  profile  of  the  man  who  was  giving 
the  dinner  party.  Not  to  be  outdone  the  artist 
hauled  out  his  drawing  pad  and  pencil  and  made 
a  quick  sketch  of  the  long-faced  man.  Both 
finished  their  jobs  practically  at  the  same  mo- 
ment; and,  rising  together  with  low  bows,  they 
exchanged  pictures — each  had  done  a  rattling 
good  caricature  of  the  other — and  then,  without 
a  word  having  been  spoken  or  a  move  made 
toward  striking  up  an  acquaintance,  each  man 
sat  him  down  again  and  finished  his  dinner. 

The  lone  diner  departed  first.  When  the 
party  at  the  other  table  had  had  their  coffee 
they  went  round  the  corner  to  a  little  circus — 
one  of  the  common  type  of  French  circuses, 
which  are  housed  in  permanent  wooden  build- 
ings instead  of  under  tents.  Just  as  they  en- 
tered, the  premier  clown,  in  spangles  and  peak 
cap,  bounded  into  the  ring.  Through  the  coat- 
ing of  powder  on  it  they  recognized  his  wrinkly, 
mobile  face:  it  was  the  sketch-making  stranger 
whose  handiwork  they  had  admired  not  half  an 
hour  before. 

Hearing  the  tale  we  went  to  the  same  circus 
and  saw  the  same  clown.  His  ears  were  painted 
bright  red — the  red  ear  is  the  inevitable  badge 
[289] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  the  French  clown — and  he  had  as  a  foil  for  his 
funning  a  comic  countryman  known  on  the  pro- 
gram as.Auguste,  which  is  the  customary  name 
of  all  comic  countrymen  in  France;  and,  though 
I  knew  only  at  second  hand  of  his  sketch-making 
abilities,  I  am  willing  to  concede  that  he  was 
the  drollest  master  of  pantomime  I  ever  saw. 
On  leaving  the  circus,  very  naturally  we  went 
to  the  cafe  where  the  first  part  of  the  little  dinner 
comedy  had  been  enacted.  We  encountered  bo 
artists,  professional  or  amateur,  of  blacklead  and 
bristol  board,  but  we  met  a  waiter  there  who 
was  an  artist — in  his  line.  I  ordered  a  cigar  of 
him,  specifying  that  the  cigar  should  be  of  a 
brand  made  in  Havana  and  popular  in  the 
States.  He  brought  one  cigar  on  a  tray.  In  size 
and  shape  and  general  aspect  it  seemed  to  an- 
swer the  required  specifications.  The  little  belly 
band  about  its  dark-brown  abdomen  was  cer- 
tainly orthodox  and  regular;  but  no  sooner  had 
I  lit  it  and  taken  a  couple  of  puffs  than  I  was 
seized  with  the  conviction  that  something  had 
crawled  up  that  cigar  and  died.  So  I  examined 
it  more  closely  and  I  saw  then  that  it  was  a  bad 
French  cigar,  artfully  adorned  about  its  middle 
with  a  second-hand  band^which  the  waiter  had 
picked  up  after  somebody  else  had  plucked  it 
off  one  of  the  genuine  articles  and  had  treasured 
it,  no  doubt,  against  the  coming  of  some  un- 
sophisticated patron  such  as  I.  And  I  doubt 
whether  that  could  have  happened  anywhere 
except  in  Paris  either.  That  is  just  it,  you  see. 
[290] 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

Try  as  hard  as  you  please  to  see  the  real  Paris, 
the  Paris  of  petty  larceny  and  small,  mean  graft 
intrudes  on  you  and  takes  a  peck  at  your  purse. 

Go  where  you  will,  you  cannot  escape  it.  You 
journey,  let  us  assume,  to  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon, 
under  the  great  dome  that  rises  behind  the  wide- 
armed  Hotel  des  Invalides.  From  a  splendid 
rotunda  you  look  down  to  where,  craftily  touched 
by  the  softened  lights  streaming  in  from  high 
above,  that  great  sarcophagus  stands  housing 
the  bones  of  Bonaparte;  and  above  the  entrance 
to  the  crypt  you  read  the  words  from  the  last 
will  and  testament  of  him  who  sleeps  here:  "I 
desire  that  my  ashes  may  repose  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  among  the  French  people  I  have 
so  well  loved."  And  you  reflect  that  he  so  well 
loved  them  that,  to  glut  his  lusting  after  power 
and  yet  more  power,  he  led  sundry  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  them  to  massacre  and  mutilation 
and  starvation;  but  that  is  the  way  of  world- 
conquerors  the  world  over  and  has  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  with  this  tale.  The  point  I  am 
trying  to  get  at  is,  if  you  can  gaze  unmoved  at 
this  sepulcher  you  are  a  clod.  And  if  you  can 
get  away  from  its  vicinity  without  being  held 
up  and  gouged  by  small  grafters  you  are  a 
wonder. 

Not  tombs  nor  temples  nor  sanctuaries  are 
safe  from  the  profane  and  polluting  feet  of  the 
buzzing  plague  of  them.  You  journey  miles 
away  from  this  spot  to  the  great  cemetery  of 
Pere  Lachaise.  You  trudge  past  seemingly  un- 
[291  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ending,  constantly  unfolding  miles  of  monuments 
and  mausoleums;  you  view  the  storied  urns  and 
animated  busts  that  mark  the  final  resting- 
places  of  France's  illustrious  dead.  And  as  you 
marvel  that  France  should  have  had  so  many 
illustrious  dead,  and  that  so  many  of  them  at 
this  writing  should  be  so  dead,  out  from  behind 
De  Musset's  vault  or  Marshal  Ney's  comes  a 
snoopy,  smirky  wretch  to  pester  you  to  the 
desperation  that  is  red-eyed  and  homicidal  with 
his  picture  post  cards  and  his  execrable  wooden 
carvings. 

You  fight  the  persistent  vermin  off  and  flee 
for  refuge  to  that  shrine  of  every  American  who 
knows  his  Mark  Twain — the  joint  grave*  of  Hell 
Loisy  and  Abie  Lard  f  and  lo,  in  the  very  shadow 
of  it  there  lurks  a  blood  brother  to  the  first  pest! 
I  defy  you  to  get  out  of  that  cemetery  without 
buying  something  of  no  value  from  one  or  the 
other,  or  both  of  them.  The  Communists  made 
their  last  stand  in  Pere  Lachaise.  So  did  I. 
They  went  down  fighting.  Same  here.  They 
were  licked  to  a  frazzle.  Ditto,  ditto. 

Next,  we  will  say,  Notre  Dame  draws  you. 
Within,  you  walk  the  clattering  flags  of  its  dim, 
long  aisles;  without,  you  peer  aloft  to  view  its 
gargoyled  waterspouts,  leering  down  like  night- 
mares caught  in  the  very  act  of  leering  and  con- 
gealed into  stone.  The  spirit  of  the  place  pos- 

*  Being  French,  and  therefore  economical,  those  two  are,  as 
it  were,  splitting  one  tomb  between  them, 
f  Popular  tourist  pronunciation. 

[292J 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

sesses  you;  you  conjure  up  a  vision  of  the  little 
maid  Esmeralda  and  the  squat  hunchback  who 
dwelt  in  the  tower  above;  and  at  the  precise 
moment  a  foul  vagabond  pounces  on  you  and, 
with  a  wink  that  is  in  itself  an  insult  and  a 
smile  that  should  earn  for  him  a  kick  for  every 
inch  of  its  breadth,  he  draws  from  beneath  his 
coat  a  set  of  nasty  photographs — things  which 
no  decent  man  could  look  at  without  gagging  and 
would  not  carry  about  with  him  on  his  person 
for  a  million  dollars  in  cash.  By  threats  and 
hard  words  you  drive  him  off;  but  seeing  others 
of  his  kind  drawing  nigh  you  run  away,  with  no 
particular  destination  in  mind  except  to  discover 
some  spot,  however  obscure  and  remote,  where 
the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary 
may  be  at  rest  for  a  few  minutes.  You  cross  a 
bridge  to  the  farther  bank  of  the  river  and  pres- 
ently you  find  yourself — at  least  I  found  myself 
there — in  one  of  the  very  few  remaining  quarters 
of  old  Paris,  as  yet  untouched  by  the  scheme  of 
improvement  that  is  wiping  out  whatever  is 
medieval  and  therefore  unsanitary,  and  making 
it  all  over,  modern  and  slick  and  shiny. 

Losing  yourself — and  with  yourself  your  sense 
of  the  reality  of  things — you  wander  into  a  maze 
of  tall,  beetle-browed  old  houses  with  tiny  win- 
dows that  lower  at  you  from  under  their  dor- 
mered  lids  like  hostile  eyes.  Above,  on  the  attic 
ledges,  are  boxes  of  flowers  and  coops  where 
caged  larks  and  linnets  pipe  cheery  snatches  of 
song;  and  on  beyond,  between  the  eaves,  which 
[293] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


bend  toward  one  another  like  gossips  who  would 
swap  whispered  confidences,  is  a  strip  of  sky. 
Below  are  smells  of  age  and  dampness.  And 
there  is  a  rich,  nutritious  garlicky  smell  too;  and 
against  a  jog  in  the  wall  a  frowsy  but  picturesque 
rag-picker  is  asleep  on  a  pile  of  sacks,  with  a  big 
sleek  cat  asleep  on  his  breast.  I  do  not  guarantee 
the  rag-picker.  He  and  his  cat  may  have  moved 
since  I  was  there  and  saw  them,  although  they 
had  the  look  about  them  both  of  being  perma- 
nent fixtures. 

You  pass  a  little  church,  lolling  and  lopped 
with  the  weight  of  the  years;  and  through  its 
doors  you  catch  a  vista  of  old  pillars  and  soft 
half-lights,  and  twinkling  candles  set  upon  the 
high  altar.  Not  even  the  jimcrackery  with 
which  the  Latin  races  dress  up  their  holy  places 
and  the  graves  of  their  dead  can  entirely  dispel 
its  abiding,  brooding  air  of  peace  and  majesty. 
You  linger  a  moment  outside  just  such  a  tavern 
as  a  certain  ragged  poet  of  parts  might  have  fre- 
quented the  while  he  penned  his  versified  inquiry 
which  after  all  these  centuries  is  not  yet  satis- 
factorily answered,  touching  on  the  approximate 
whereabouts  of  the  snows  that  fell  yesteryear 
and  the  roses  that  bloomed  yesterweek. 

Midway  of  a  winding  alley  you  come  to  an 
ancient  wall  and  an  ancient  gate  crowned  with 
the  half -effaced  quarterings  of  an  ancient  house, 
and  you  halt,  almost  expecting  that  the  rusted 
hinges  will  creak  a  warning  and  the  wooden 
halves  begrudgingly  divide,  and  that  from  under 
[294] 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

the  slewed  arch  will  issue  a  most  gallant  swash- 
buckler with  his  buckles  all  buckled  and  his 
swash  swashing;  hence  the  name. 

At  this  juncture  you  feel  a  touch  on  your 
shoulder.  You  spin  on  your  heel,  feeling  at  your 
hip  for  an  imaginary  sword.  But  'tis  not  Master 
Francois  Villon,  in  tattered  doublet,  with  a  son- 
net. Nor  yet  is  it  a  jaunty  blade,  in  silken 
cloak,  with  a  challenge.  It  is  your  friend  of  the 
obscene  photograph  collection.  He  has  followed 
you  all  the  way  from  1914  clear  back  into  the 
Middle  Ages,  biding  his  time  and  hoping  you 
will  change  your  mind  about  investing  in  his 
nasty  wares. 

With  your  wife  or  your  sister  you  visit  the 
Louvre.  You  look  on  the  Winged  Victory  and 
admire  her  classic  but  somewhat  bulky  propor- 
tions, meantime  saying  to  yourself  that  it  cer- 
tainly must  have  been  a  mighty  hard  battle  the 
lady  won,  because  she  lost  her  head  and  both 
arms  in  doing  it.  You  tire  of  interminable  por- 
traits of  the  Grand  Monarch,  showing  him 
grouped  with  his  wife,  the  Old-fashioned  Square 
Upright;  and  his  son,  the  Baby  Grand;  and  his 
prime  minister,  the  Lyre;  and  his  brother,  the 
Yellow  Clarinet,  and  the  rest  of  the  orchestra. 
You  examine  the  space  on  the  wall  where  Mona 
Lisa  is  or  is  not  smiling  her  inscrutable  smile, 
depending  on  whether  the  open  season  for  Mona 
Lisas  has  come  or  has  passed.  Wandering  your 
weary  way  past  acres  of  the  works  of  Rubens, 
and  miles  of  Titians,  and  townships  of  Corots, 
[295] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


and  ranges  of  Michelangelos,  and  quarter  sec- 
tions of  Raphaels,  and  government  reserves  of 
Leonardo  da  Vincis,  you  stray  off  finally  into  a 
side  passage  to  see  something  else,  leaving  your 
wife  or  your  sister  behind  in  one  of  the  main 
galleries.  You  are  gone  only  a  minute  or  two, 
but  returning  you  find  her  furiously,  helplessly 
angry  and  embarrassed;  and  on  inquiry  you 
learn  she  has  been  enduring  the  ordeal  of  being 
ogled  by  a  small,  wormy-looking  creature  who 
has  gone  without  shaving  for  two  or  three  yeans 
in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  resemble  a  real  man. 

Some  day  somebody  will  take  a  squirt-gun 
and  a  pint  of  insect  powder  and  destroy  these 
little,  hairy  caterpillars  who  infest  all  parts  of 
Paris  and  make  it  impossible  for  a  respectable 
woman  to  venture  on  the  streets  unaccom- 
panied. 

Let  us,  for  the  further  adornment  and  final 
elaboration  of  the  illustration,  say  that  you  are 
sitting  at  one  of  the  small  round  tables  which 
make  mushroom  beds  under  the  awnings  along 
the  boulevards.  All  about  you  are  French  peo- 
ple, enjoying  themselves  in  an  easy  and  a  ration- 
al and  an  inexpensive  manner.  As  for  yourself, 
all  you  desire  is  a  quiet  half  hour  in  which  to 
read  your  paper,  sip  your  coffee,  and  watch  the 
shifting  panorama  of  street  life.  That  em- 
phatically is  all  you  ask;  merely  that  and  a 
little  privacy.  Are  you  permitted  to  have  it? 
You  are  not. 

Beggars  beseech  you  to  look  on  their  afflic- 
[296] 


SYMPTOMS    OF    THE    DISEASE 

tions.  Sidewalk  venders  cluster  about  you. 
And  if  you  are  smoking  the  spark  of  your  cigar 
inevitably  draws  a  full  delegation  of  those 
moldy  old  whiskerados  who  follow  the  profession 
of  collecting  butts  and  quids.  They  hover  about 
you,  watchful  as  chicken  hawks;  and  their  bleary 
eyes  envy  you  for  each  puff  you  take,  until  you 
grow  uneasy  and  self-reproachful  under  their 
glare,  and  your  smoke  is  spoiled  for  you.  Very 
few  men  smoke  well  before  an  audience,  even  an 
audience  of  their  own  selection;  so  before  your 
cigar  is  half  finished  you  toss  it  away,  and  while 
it  is  yet  in  the  air  the  watchers  leap  forward  and 
squabble  under  your  feet  for  the  prize.  Then 
the  winner  emerges  from  the  scramble  and  de- 
parts along  the  sidewalk  to  seek  his  next  victim, 
with  the  still-smoking  trophy  impaled  on  his 
steel-pointed  tool  of  trade. 

In  desperation  you  rise  up  from  there  and  flee 
away  to  your  hotel  and  hide  in  your  room,  and 
lock  and  double-lock  the  doors,  and  begin  to 
study  timetables  with  a  view  to  quitting  Paris 
on  the  first  train  leaving  for  anywhere,  the  only 
drawback  to  a  speedy  consummation  of  this 
happy  prospect  being  that  no  living  creature 
can  fathom  the  meaning  of  French  timetables. 

It  is  not  so  much  the  aggregate  amount  of 
which  they  have  despoiled  you — it  is  the  knowl- 
edge that  every  other  person  in  Paris  is  seeking 
and  planning  to  nick  you  for  some  sum,  great 
or  small;  it  is  the  realization  that,  by  reason  of 
your  ignorance  of  the  language  and  the  customs 
[297] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  the  land,  you  are  at  their  mercy,  and  they 
have  no  mercy — that,  as  Walter  Pater  so  suc- 
cinctly phrases  it,  that  is  what  gets  your  goat — 
and  gets  it  good! 

So  you  shake  the  dust  from  your  feet — your 
own  dust,  not  Paris'  dust — and  you  depart  per 
hired  hack  for  the  station  and  per  train  from  the 
station.  And  as  the  train  draws  away  from 
the  trainshed  you  behold  behind  you  two 
legends  or  inscriptions,  repeated  and  reiterated 
everywhere  on  the  walls  of  the  French  capital. 

One  of  them  says:  English  Spoken  Here! 

And  the  other  says:  Liberality!  Economy! 
Frugality ! 


[298] 


LONDON  is  essentially  a  he-town,  just  as 
Paris  is  indubitably  a  she-town.    That 
untranslatable,     unmistakable     some- 
thing   which  is  not  to  be  defined    in 
the  plain  terms  of  speech,  yet  which  sets  its 
mark    on    any    long-settled    community,    has 
branded  them  both — the  one  as  being  mascu- 
line, the  other  as  being  feminine.      For  Paris 
the  lily  stands,  the  conventionalized,  feminized 
lily;   but  London    is    a   lion,   a   shag-headed, 
heavy-pawed  British  lion. 

One  thinks  of  Paris  as  a  woman,  rather  pretty, 
somewhat  regardless  of  morals  and  decidedly 
slovenly  of  person;  craving  admiration,  but  too 
indolent  to  earn  it  by  keeping  herself  presentable; 
covering  up  the  dirt  on  a  piquant  face  with  rice 
powder;  wearing  paste  jewels  in  her  earlobes  in 
an  effort  to  distract  criticism  from  the  fact  that 
the  ears  themselves  stand  in  need  of  soap  and 
water.  London,  viewed  in  retrospect,  seems  a 
great,  clumsy,  slow-moving  giant,  with  hair  on 
[299] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


his  chest  and  soil  under  his  nails;  competent  in 
the  larger  affairs  and  careless  about  the  smaller 
ones;  amply  satisfied  with  himself  and  disdainful 
of  the  opinions  of  outsiders;  having  all  of  a  man's 
vices  and  a  good  share  of  his  virtues;  loving 
sport  for  sport's  sake  and  power  for  its  own 
sake  and  despising  art  for  art's  sake. 

You  do  not  have  to  spend  a  week  or  a  month 
or  a  year  in  either  Paris  or  London  to  note  these 
things.  The  distinction  is  wide  enough  to  be 
seen  in  a  day;  yes,  or  in  an  hour.  It  shows  in 
all  the  outer  aspects.  An  overtowering  majority 
of  the  smart  shops  in  Paris  cater  to  women;  a 
large  majority  of  the  smart  shops  in  London 
cater  to  men.  It  shows  in  their  voices;  for  cities 
have  voices  just  as  individuals  have  voices. 
New  York  is  not  yet  old  enough  to  have  found 
its  own  sex.  It  belongs  still  to  the  neuter  gender. 
New  York  is  not  even  a  noun — it's  a  verb  transi- 
tive; but  its  voice  is  a  female  voice,  just  as 
Paris'  voice  is.  New  York,  like  Paris,  is  full  of 
strident,  shrieking  sounds,  shrill  outcries,  hyster- 
ical babblings — a  women's  bridge-whist  club  at 
the  hour  of  casting  up  the  score;  but  London 
now  is  different.  London  at  all  hours  speaks 
with  a  sustained,  sullen,  steady,  grinding  tone, 
never  entirely  sinking  into  quietude,  never  rising 
to  acute  discords.  The  sound  of  London  rolls 
on  like  a  river — a  river  that  ebbs  sometimes, 
but  rarely  floods  above  its  normal  banks;  it  im- 
presses one  as  the  necessary  breathing  of  a 
grunting  and  burdened  monster  who  has  a 
[3001 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


mighty  job  on  his  hands  and  is  taking  his  own 
good  time  about  doing  it. 

In  London,  mind  you,  the  newsboys  do  not 
shout  their  extras.  They  bear  in  their  hands 
placards  with  black-typed  announcements  of  the 
big  news  story  of  the  day;  and  even  these  head- 
ings seem,  designed  to  soothe  rather  than  to 
excite — saying,  for  example,  such  things  as 
Special  From  Liner,  in  referring  to  a  disaster  at 
sea,  and  Meeting  in  Ulster,  when  meaning  that 
the  northern  part  of  Ireland  has  gone  on  record 
as  favoring  civil  war  before  home  rule. 

The  street  venders  do  not  bray  on  noisy 
trumpets  or  ring  with  bells  or  utter  loud  cries 
to  advertise  their  wares.  The  policeman  does 
not  shout  his  orders  out;  he  holds  aloft  the 
stripe-sleeved  arm  of  authority  and  all  London 
obeys.  I  think  the  reason  why  the  Londoners 
turned  so  viciously  on  the  suffragettes  was  not 
because  of  the  things  the  suffragettes  clamored 
for,  but  because  they  clamored  for  them  so 
loudly.  They  jarred  the  public  peace — that 
must  have  been  it. 

I  can  understand  why  an  adult  American 
might  go  to  Paris  and  stay  in  Paris  and  be 
satisfied  with  Paris,  if  he  were  a  lover  of  art 
and  millinery  in  all  their  branches;  or  why  he 
might  go  to  Berlin  if  he  were  studying  music 
and  municipal  control;  or  to  Amsterdam  if  he 
cared  for  cleanliness  and  new  cheese;  or  to 
Vienna  if  he  were  concerned  with  surgery,  light 
opera,  and  the  effect  on  the  human  lungs  of 
[301] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


doing  without  fresh  air  for  long  periods  of  time; 
or  to  Rome  if  he  were  an  antiquarian  and  in- 
terested in  ancient  life;  or  to  Naples  if  he  were 
an  entomologist  and  interested  in  insect  life;  or 
to  Venice  if  he  liked  ruins  with  water  round 
them;  or  to  Padua  if  he  liked  ruins  with  no 
water  anywhere  near  them.  No:  I'm  blessed  if 
I  can  think  of  a  single  good  reason  why  a  sane 
man  should  go  to  Padua  if  he  could  go  any- 
where else. 

But  I  think  I  know,  good  and  well,  why  a  man 
might  spend  his  whole  vacation  in  London  and 
enjoy  every  minute  of  it.  For  this  old  fogy,  old 
foggy  town  of  London  is  a  man-sized  town,  and 
a  man -run  town;  and  it  has  a  fascination  of  its 
own  that  is  as  much  a  part  of  it  as  London's 
grime  is;  or  London's  vastness  and  London's 
pettiness;  or  London's  wealth  and  its  stark  pov- 
erty; or  its  atrocious  suburbs;  or  its  dirty,  trade- 
fretted  river;  or  its  dismal  back  streets;  or  its 
still  more  dismal  slums — or  anything  that  is 
London's. 

To  a  man  hailing  from  a  land  where  every- 
thing is  so  new  that  quite  a  good  deal  of  it  has 
not  even  happened  yet,  it  is  a  joyful  thing  to 
turn  off  a  main-traveled  road  into  one  of  the 
crooked  byways  in  which  the  older  parts  of 
London  abound,  and  suddenly  to  come,  full  face, 
on  a  house  or  a  court  or  a  pump  which  figured 
in  epochal  history  or  epochal  literature  of  the 
English-speaking  race.  It  is  a  still  greater  joy 
to  find  it — house  or  court  or  pump  or  what  not 
[302] 


IN  LONDON,  MIND  YOU,  THE  NEWSBOYS  DO  NOT  SHOUT  THEIR  EXTRAS 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


—looking  now  pretty  much  as  it  must  have 
looked  when  good  Queen  Bess,  or  little  Dick 
Whittington,  or  Chaucer  the  scribe,  or  Shak- 
spere  the  player,  came  this  way.  It  is  fine  to  be 
riding  through  the  country  and  pass  a  peaceful 
green  meadow  and  inquire  its  name  of  your 
driver  and  be  told,  most  offhandedly,  that  it  is 
a  place  called  Runnymede.  Each  time  this 
happened  to  me  I  felt  the  thrill  of  a  discoverer; 
as  though  I  had  been  the  first  traveler  to  find 
these  spots. 

I  remember  that  through  an  open  door  I  was 
marveling  at  the  domestic  economies  of  an  Eng- 
lish barber  shop.  I  use  the  word  economies  in 
this  connection  advisedly;  for,  compared  with 
the  average  high-polished,  sterilized  and  anti- 
septic barber  shop  of  an  American  city,  this 
shop  seemed  a  torture  cave.  In  London,  pubs 
are  like  that,  and  some  dentists'  establishments 
and  law  offices — musty,  fusty  dens  very  unlike 
their  Yankee  counterparts.  In  this  particular 
shop  now  the  chairs  were  hard,  wooden  chairs; 
the  looking-glass — you  could  not  rightly  call  it 
a  mirror — was  cracked  and  bleary;  and  an  ap- 
prentice boy  went  from  one  patron  to  another, 
lathering  each  face;  and  then  the  master  fol- 
lowed after  him,  razor  in  hand,  and  shaved  the 
waiting  countenances  in  turn.  Flies  that  looked 
as  though  they  properly  belonged  in  a  livery 
stable  were  buzzing  about;  and  there  was  a 
prevalent  odor  which  made  me  think  that  all 
the  sick  pomade  in  the  world  had  come  hither 
[3051 


EUROPE    REVISED 


to  spend  its  last  declining  hours.  I  said  to  my- 
self that  this  place  would  bear  further  study; 
that  some  day,  when  I  felt  particularly  hardy 
and  daring,  I  would  come  here  and  be  shaved, 
and  afterward  would  write  a  piece  about  it  and 
sell  it  for  money.  So,  the  better  to  fix  its  loca- 
tion in  my  mind,  I  glanced  up  at  the  street  sign 
and,  behold!  I  was  hard  by  Drury  Lane,  where 
Sweet  Nelly  once  on  a  time  held  her  court. 

Another  time  I  stopped  in  front  of  a  fruit- 
erer's, my  eye  having  been  caught  by  the  pres- 
ence in  his  window  of  half  a  dozen  draggled- 
looking,  wilted  roasting  ears  decorated  with  a 
placard  reading  as  follows: 

AMERICAN  MAIZE  OR  INDIAN  CORN 
A  VEGETABLE — To  BE  BOILED  AND  THEN 
EATEN 

I  was  remarking  to  myself  that  these  British- 
ers were  surely  a  strange  race  of  beings — that  if 
England  produced  so  delectable  a  thing  as  green 
corn  we  in  America  would  import  it  by  the  ship- 
load and  serve  it  on  every  table;  whereas  here 
it  was  so  rare  that  they  needs  must  label  it  as 
belonging  to  the  vegetable  kingdom,  lest  people 
should  think  it  might  be  an  animal — when  I 
chanced  to  look  more  closely  at  the  building 
occupied  by  the  fruiterer  and  saw  that  it  was 
an  ancient  house,  half-timbered  above  the  first 
floor,  with  a  queer  low-browed  roof.  Inquiring 
afterward  I  learned  that  this  house  dated 
straight  back  to  Elizabethan  days  and  still  on 
[3061 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


beyond  for  so  many  years  that  no  man  knew 
exactly  how  many;  and  I  began  to  understand 
in  a  dim  sort  of  way  how  and  why  it  was  these 
people  held  so  fast  to  the  things  they  had  and 
cared  so  little  for  the  things  they  had  not. 

Better  than  by  all  the  reading  you  have  ever 
done  you  absorb  a  sense  and  realization  of  the 
splendor  of  England's  past  when  you  go  to 
Westminster  Abbey  and  stand — figuratively — 
with  one  foot  on  Jonson  and  another  on  Dry  den; 
and  if,  overcome  by  the  presence  of  so  much 
dead-and-gone  greatness,  you  fall  in  a  fit  you 
commit  a  trespass  on  the  last  resting-place  of 
Macaulay  or  Clive,  or  somebody  of  equal  con- 
sequence. More  imposing  even  than  Westmin- 
ster is  St.  Paul's.  I  am  not  thinking  so  much 
of  the  memorials  or  the  tombs  or  the  statues 
there,  but  of  the  tattered  battleflags  bearing  the 
names  of  battles  fought  by  the  English  in  every 
crack  and  cranny  of  the  world,  from  Quebec  to 
Ladysmith,  and  from  Lucknow  to  Khartum. 
Beholding  them  there,  draped  above  the  tombs, 
some  faded  but  still  intact,  some  mere  clotted 
wisps  of  ragged  silk  clinging  to  blackened  stand- 
ards, gives  one  an  uplifting  conception  of  the 
spirit  that  has  sent  the  British  soldier  forth  to 
girth  the  globe,  never  faltering,  never  slackening 
pace,  never  giving  back  a  step  to-day  but  that 
he  took  two  steps  forward  to-morrow;  never 
stopping — except  for  tea. 

The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart  that  he  would 
go  to  England  and  come  away  and  write  some- 
[307] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


thing  about  his  impressions,  but  never  write  a 
single,  solitary  word  about  the  Englishman's 
tea-drinking  habit,  or  the  Englishman's  cricket- 
playing  habit,  or  the  Englishman's  lack  of 
a  sense  of  humor.  I  was  that  fool.  But  it  can- 
not be  done.  Lacking  these  things  England 
would  not  be  England.  It  would  be  Hamlet 
without  Hamlet  or  the  Ghost  or  the  wicked 
Queen  or  mad  Ophelia  or  her  tiresome  old  pa; 
for  most  English  life  and  the  bulk  of  English 
conversation  center  about  sporting  topics,  with 
the  topic  of  cricket  predominating.  And  at  a 
given  hour  of  the  day  the  wheels  of  the  empire 
stop,  and  everybody  in  the  empire — from  the 
king  in  the  counting  house  counting  up  his 
money,  to  the  maid  in  the  garden  hanging  out 
the  clothes — drops  what  he  or  she  may  be  doing 
and  imbibes  tea  until  further  orders.  And  what 
oceans  of  tea  they  do  imbibe ! 

There  was  an  old  lady  who  sat  near  us  in  a 
teashop  one  afternoon.  As  well  as  might  be 
judged  by  one  who  saw  her  in  a  sitting  posture 
only,  she  was  no  deeper  than  any  other  old  lady 
of  average  dimensions;  but  in  rapid  succession 
she  tilted  five  large  cups  of  piping  hot  tea  into 
herself  and  was  starting  on  the  sixth  when  we 
withdrew,  stunned  by  the  spectacle.  She  must 
have  been  fearfully  long-waisted.  I  had  a 
mental  vision  of  her  interior  decorations — all 
fumed-oak  wainscotings  and  buff-leather  hang- 
ings. Still,  I  doubt  whether  their  four-o'clock- 
tea  habit  is  any  worse  than  our  five-o'clock- 
[3081 


AND  AT  A  GIVEN  HOUR  EVERYBODY  IMBIBES  TEA  UNTIL  FURTHER  ORDERS 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


cocktail  habit.  It  all  depends,  I  suppose,  on 
whether  one  prefers  being  tanned  inside  to  being 
pickled.  But  we  are  getting  bravely  over  our 
cocktail  habit,  as  attested  by  figures  and  the 
visual  evidences,  while  their  tea  habit  is  growing 
on  them — so  the  statisticians  say. 

As  for  the  Englishman's  sense  of  humor,  or 
his  lack  of  it,  I  judge  that  we  Americans  are 
partly  wrong  in  our  diagnosis  of  that  phase  of 
British  character  and  partly  right.  Because  he 
is  slow  to  laugh  at  a  joke,  we  think  he  cannot 
see  the  point  of  it  without  a  diagram  and  a 
chart.  What  we  do  not  take  into  consideration 
is  that,  through  centuries  of  self-repression,  the 
Englishman  has  so  drilled  himself  into  refraining 
from  laughing  in  public — for  fear,  you  see,  of 
making  himself  conspicuous — it  has  become  a 
part  of  his  nature.  Indeed,  in  certain  quarters 
a  prejudice  against  laughing  under  any  circum- 
stances appears  to  have  sprung  up. 

I  was  looking  one  day  through  the  pages  of 
one  of  the  critical  English  weeklies.  Nearly  all 
British  weeklies  are  heavy,  and  this  is  the 
heaviest  of  the  lot.  Its  editorial  column  alone 
weighs  from  twelve  to  eighteen  pounds,  and  if 
you  strike  a  man  with  a  clubbed  copy  of  it  the 
crime  is  assault  with  a  dull  blunt  instrument, 
with  intent  to  kill.  At  the  end  of  a  ponderous 
review  of  the  East  Indian  question  I  came  on  a 
letter  written  to  the  editor  by  a  gentleman  sign- 
ing himself  with  his  own  name,  and  reading  in 
part  as  follows: 

[311] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Sir:  Laughter  is  always  vulgar  and  offensive. 
For  instance,  whatever  there  may  be  of  pleasure 
in  a  theater — and  there  is  not  much — the  place 
is  made  impossible  by  laughter.  .  .  .  No;  it 
is  very  seldom  that  happiness  is  refined  or  pleas- 
ant to  see — merriment  that  is  produced  by  wine 
is  false  merriment,  and  there  is  no  true  merri- 
ment without  it.  ...  Laughter  is  profane, 
in  fact,  where  it  is  not  ridiculous. 

On  the  other  hand  the  English  in  bulk  will 
laugh  at  a  thing  which  among  us  would  bring 
tears  to  the  most  hardened  cheek  and  incite  our 
rebellious  souls  to  mayhem  and  manslaughter. 
On  a  certain  night  we  attended  a  musical  show 
at  one  of  the  biggest  London  theaters.  There 
was  some  really  clever  funning  by  a  straight 
comedian,  but  his  best  efforts  died  a-borning; 
they  drew  but  the  merest  ripple  of  laughter 
from  the  audience.  Later  there  was  a  scene  be- 
tween a  sad  person  made  up  as  a  Scotchman 
and  another  equally  sad  person  of  color  from 
the  States.  These  times  no  English  musical 
show  is  complete  unless  the  cast  includes  a 
North  American  negro  with  his  lips  painted  to 
resemble  a  wide  slice  of  ripe  watermelon,  singing 
ragtime  ditties  touching  on  his  chicken  and  his 
Baby  Doll.  This  pair  took  the  stage,  all  others 
considerately  withdrawing;  and  presently,  after 
a  period  of  heartrending  comicalities,  the  Scotch- 
man, speaking  as  though  he  had  a  mouthful  of 
hot  oatmeal,  proceeded  to  narrate  an  account 
[312] 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


of  a  fictitious  encounter  with  a  bear.     Substan- 
tially this  dialogue  ensued: 

THE  SCOTCHMAN — He  was  a  vurra  fierce  griz- 
zly bear,  ye  ken;  and  he  rushed  at  me  from  be- 
hind a  jugged  rock. 

THE  NEGRO — Mistah,  you  means  a  jagged 
rock,  don't  you? 

THE  SCOTCHMAN — Nay,  nay,  laddie — a  jugged 
rock. 

THE  NEGRO — Whut's  dat  you  say?  Whut — 
whut  is  a  jugged  rock? 

THE  SCOTCHMAN  (forgetting  his  accent) — Why, 
a  rock  with  a  jug  on  it,  old  chap.  (A  stage  wait 
to  let  that  soak  into  them  in  all  its  full  strength.) 
A  rock  with  a  jug  on  it  would  be  a  jugged  rock, 
wouldn't  it — eh? 

The  pause  had  been  sufficient — they  had  it 
now.  And  from  all  parts  of  the  house  a  whoop 
of  unrestrained  joy  went  up. 

Witnessing  such  spectacles  as  this,  the  Amer- 
ican observer  naturally  begins  to  think  that  the 
English  in  mass  cannot  see  a  joke  that  is  the 
least  bit  subtle.  Nevertheless,  however,  and  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding — as  Colonel  Bill 
Sterritt,  of  Texas,  used  to  say — England  has 
produced  the  greatest  natural  humorists  in  the 
world  and  some  of  the  greatest  comedians,  and 
for  a  great  many  years  has  supported  the  great- 
est comic  paper  printed  in  the  English  language, 
and  that  is  Punch.  Also,  at  an  informal  Satur- 
day-night dinner  in  a  well-known  London  club 
[3131 


EUROPE    REVISED 


I  heard  as  much  spontaneous  repartee  from  the 
company  at  large,  and  as  much  quiet  humor 
from  the  chairman,  as  I  ever  heard  in  one  even- 
ing anywhere;  but  if  you  went  into  that  club 
on  a  weekday  you  might  suppose  somebody  was 
dead  and  laid  out  there,  and  that  everybody 
about  the  premises  had  gone  into  deep  mourn- 
ing for  the  deceased.  If  any  member  of  that 
club  had  dared  then  to  crack  a  joke  they  would 
have  expelled  him — as  soon  as  they  got  over 
the  shock  of  the  bounder's  confounded  cheek. 
Saturday  night?  Yes.  Monday  afternoon? 
Never!  And  there  you  are! 

Speaking  of  Punch  reminds  me  that  we  were 
in  London  when  Punch,  after  giving  the  matter 
due  consideration  for  a  period  of  years,  came 
out  with  a  colored  jacket  on  him.  If  the  Prime 
Minister  had  done  a  Highland  fling  in  costume 
at  high  noon  in  Oxford  Circus  it  could  not  have 
created  more  excitement  than  Punch  created  by 
coming  out  with  a  colored  cover.  Yet,  to  an 
American's  understanding,  the  change  was  not 
so  revolutionary  and  radical  as  all  that.  Punch s 
well-known  lineaments  remained  the  same. 
There  was  merely  a  dab  of  palish  yellow  here 
and  there  on  the  sheet;  at  first  glance  you 
might  have  supposed  somebody  else  had 
been  reading  your  copy  of  Punch  at  breakfast 
and  had  been  careless  in  spooning  up  his  soft- 
boiled  egg. 

They  are  our  cousins,  the  English  are;  our 
cousins  once  removed,  'tis  true — see  standard 
[314] 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


histories  of  the  American  Revolution  for  further 
details  of  the  removing— but  they  are  kinsmen 
of  ours  beyond  a  doubt.  Even  if  there  were  no 
other  evidences,  the  kinship  between  us  would 
still  be  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  English  are 
the  only  people  except  the  Americans  who  look 
on  red  meat — beef,  mutton,  ham — as  a  food  to 
be  eaten  for  the  taste  of  the  meat  itself ;  whereas 
the  other  nations  of  the  earth  regard  it  as  a 
vehicle  for  carrying  various  sauces,  dressings 
and  stuffings  southward  to  the  stomach.  But, 
to  the  notice  of  the  American  who  is  paying 
them  his  first  visit,  they  certainly  do  offer  some 
amazing  contradictions. 

In  the  large  matters  of  business  the  English 
have  been  accused  of  trickiness,  which,  however, 
may  be  but  the  voice  of  envious  competition 
speaking;  but  in  the  small  things  they  surely  are 
most  marvelously  honest.  Consider  their  rail- 
road trains  now :  To  a  greenhorn  from  this  side 
the  blue  water,  a  railroad  journey  out  of  London 
to  almost  any  point  in  rural  England  is  a  suc- 
cession of  surprises,  and  all  pleasant  ones.  To 
begin  with,  apparently  there  is  nobody  at  the 
station  whose  business  it  is  to  show  you  to  your 
train  or  to  examine  your  ticket  before  you 
have  found  your  train  for  yourself.  There 
is  no  mad  scurrying  about  at  the  moment  of 
departure,  no  bleating  of  directions  through 
megaphones.  Unchaperoned  you  move  along  a 
long  platform  under  a  grimy  shed,  where  trains 
are  standing  with  their  carriage  doors  hospitably 
[3151 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ajar,  and  unassisted  you  find  your  own  train 
and  your  own  carriage,  and  enter  therein. 

Sharp  on  the  minute  an  unseen  hand — at 
least  I  never  saw  it — slams  the  doors  and  coyly 
— you  might  almost  say  secretively — the  train 
moves  out  of  the  terminal.  It  moves  smoothly 
and  practically  without  jarring  sounds.  There 
is  no  shrieking  of  steel  against  steel.  It  is  as 
though  the  rails  were  made  of  rubber  and  the 
wheel-flanges  were  faced  with  noise-proof  felt. 
No  conductor  comes  to  punch  your  ticket,  no 
brakeman  to  bellow  the  stops,  no  train  butcher 
bleating  the  gabbled  invoice  of  his  gumdrops, 
bananas  and  other  best-sellers. 

Glory  be!  It  is  all  so  peaceful  and  soothing; 
as  peaceful  and  as  soothing  as  the  land  through 
which  you  are  gliding  when  once  you  have  left 
behind  smoky  London  and  its  interminable  en- 
virons; for  now  you  are  in  a  land  that  was 
finished  and  plenished  five  hundred  years  ago 
and  since  then  has  not  been  altered  in  any 
material  aspect  whatsoever.  Every  blade  of 
grass  is  in  its  right  place;  every  wayside  shrub 
seemingly  has  been  restrained  and  trained  to 
grow  in  exactly  the  right  and  the  proper  way. 
Streaming  by  your  car  window  goes  a  tastefully 
arranged  succession  of  the  thatched  cottages, 
the  huddled  little  towns,  the  meandering  brooks, 
the  ancient  inns,  the  fine  old  country  places,  the 
high-hedged  estates  of  the  landed  gentry,  with 
rose-covered  lodges  at  the  gates  and  robust 
children  in  the  doorways — just  as  you  have 
always  seen  them  in  the  picture  books.  There 
[3161 


AS    DONE    IN    LONDON 


are  fields  that  are  velvet  lawns,  and  lawns  that 
are  carpets  of  green  cut-plush.  England  is  the 
only  country  I  know  of  that  lives  up — exactly 
and  precisely — to  its  storybook  descriptions  and 
its  storybook  illustrations. 

Eventually  you  come  to  your  stopping  point; 
at  least  you  have  reason  to  believe  it  may  be 
your  stopping  point.  As  well  as  you  may  judge 
by  the  signs  that  plaster  the  front,  the  sides,  and 
even  the  top  of  the  station,  the  place  is  either  a 
beef  extract  or  a  washing  compound.  Nor  may 
you  count  on  any  travelers  who  may  be  sharing 
your  compartment  with  you  to  set  you  right  by 
a  timely  word  or  two.  Your  fellow  passengers 
may  pity  you  for  your  ignorance  and  your  per- 
plexity, but  they  would  not  speak;  they  could 
not,  not  having  been  introduced.  A  German  or 
a  Frenchman  would  be  giving  you  gladly  what 
aid  he  might;  but  a  well-born  Englishman  who 
had  not  been  introduced  would  ride  for  nine 
years  with  you  and  not  speak.  I  found  the  best 
way  of  solving  the  puzzle  was  to  consult  the 
timecard.  If  the  timecard  said  our  train  would 
reach  a  given  point  at  a  given  hour,  and  this 
was  the  given  hour,  then  we  might  be  pretty  sure 
this  was  the  given  point.  Timetables  in  England 
are  written  by  realists,  not  by  gifted  fiction 
writers  of  the  impressionistic  school,  as  is  fre- 
quently the  case  in  America. 

So,  if  this  timecard  says  it  is  time  for  you  to 

get  off  you  get  off,  with  your  ticket  still  in  your 

possession;  and  if  it  be  a  small  station  you  go 

yourself  and  look  up  the  station  master,  who 

[317] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


is  tucked  away  in  a  secluded  cubbyhole  some- 
where absorbing  tea,  or  else  is  in  the  luggage 
room  fussing  with  baby  carriages  and  patent 
churns.  Having  ferreted  him  out  in  his  hiding- 
place  you  hand  over  your  ticket  to  him  and  he 
touches  his  cap  brim  and  says  "Kew"  very 
politely,  which  concludes  the  ceremony  so  far 
as  you  are  concerned. 

Then,  if  you  have  brought  any  heavy  baggage 
with  you  in  the  baggage  car — pardon,  I  meant 
the  luggage  van — you  go  back  to  the  platform 
and  pick  it  out  from  the  heap  of  luggage  that 
has  been  dumped  there  by  the  train  hands.  With 
ordinary  luck  and  forethought  you  could  easily 
pick  out  and  claim  and  carry  off  some  other 
person's  trunk,  provided  you  fancied  it  more 
than  your  own  trunk,  only  you  do  not.  You  do 
not  do  this  any  more  than,  having  purchased  a 
second-class  ticket,  or  a  third-class,  you  ride 
first-class;  though,  so  far  as  I  eould  tell,  there 
is  no  check  to  prevent  a  person  from  so  doing. 
At  least  an  Englishman  never  does.  It  never 
seems  to  occur  to  him  to  do  so.  The  English 
have  no  imagination. 

I  have  a  suspicion  that  if  one  of  our  railroads 
tried  to  operate  its  train  service  on  such  a  basis 
of  confidence  in  the  general  public  there  would 
be  a  most  deficitful  hiatus  in  the  receipts  from 
passenger  traffic  to  be  reported  to  a  distressed 
group  of  stockholders  at  the  end  of  the  fiscal 
year.  This,  however,  is  merely  a  supposition  on 
my  part.  I  may  be  wrong. 
[318] 


CHAPTER  XVII 
BRITAIN  IN  TWENTY  MINUTES 


TO  a  greater  degree,  I  take  it,  than  any 
other  race  the  English  have  mastered 
the  difficult  art  of  minding  their  own 
affairs.      The  average  Englishman  is 
tremendously  knowledgable  about  his  own  con- 
cerns  and   monumentally   ignorant   about   all 
other  things.     If  an  Englishman's  business  re- 
quires that  he  shall  learn  the  habits  and  customs 
of  the  Patagonians  or  the  Chicagoans  or  any 
other  race  which,  because  it  is  not  British,  he 
naturally  regards  as  barbaric,  he  goes  and  learns 
them — and  learns  them  well.     Otherwise  your 
Britisher  does  not  bother  himself  with  what  the 
outlander  may  or  may  not  do. 

An  Englishman  cannot  understand  an  Amer- 
ican's instinctive  desire  to  know  about  things; 
we  do  not  understand  his  lack  of  curiosity  in 
that  direction.  Both  of  us  forget  what  I  think 
must  be  the  underlying  reasons — that  we  are  a 
race  which,  until  comparatively  recently,  lived 
wide  distances  apart  in  sparsely  settled  lands, 
[319] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


and  were  dependent  on  the  passing  stranger  for 
news  of  the  rest  of  the  world,  whereas  he  belongs 
to  a  people  who  all  these  centuries  have  been 
packed  together  in  their  little  island  like  oats 
in  a  bin.  London  itself  is  so  crowded  that  the 
noses  of  most  of  the  lower  classes  turn  up — there 
is  not  room  for  them  to  point  straight  ahead 
without  causing  a  great  and  bitter  confusion  of 
noses;  but  whether  it  points  upward  or  outward 
or  downward  the  owner  of  the  nose  pretty  gen- 
erally refrains  from  ramming  it  into  other  folks' 
business.  If  he  and  all  his  fellows  did  not  do 
this;  if  they  had  not  learned  to  keep  their  voices 
down  and  to  muffle  unnecessary  noises;  if  they 
had  not  built  tight  covers  of  reserve  about  them- 
selves, as  the  oyster  builds  up  a  shell  to  protect 
his  tender  tissues  from  irritation — they  would 
long  ago  have  become  a  race  of  nervous  wrecks 
instead  of  being  what  they  are,  the  most  stolid 
beings  alive. 

In  London  even  royalty  is  mercifully  vouch- 
safed a  reasonable  amount  of  privacy  from  the 
intrusion  of  the  gimlet  eye  and  the  chisel  nose. 
Royalty  may  ride  in  Rotten  Row  of  a  morning, 
promenade  on  the  Mall  at  noon,  and  shop  in 
the  Regent  Street  shops  in  the  afternoon,  and  at 
all  times  go  unguarded  and  unbothered — I  had 
almost  said  unnoticed.  It  may  be  that  long  and 
constant  familiarity  with  the  institution  of  roy- 
alty has  bred  indifference  in  the  London  mind 
to  the  physical  presence  of  dukes  and  princes 
and  things;  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  a  good 
[320] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

share  of  it  should  be  attributed  to  the  inborn 
and  ingrown  British  faculty  for  letting  other 
folks  be. 

One  morning  as  I  was  walking  at  random 
through  the  aristocratic  district,  of  which  St. 
James  is  the  solar  plexus  and  Park  Lane  the 
spinal  cord,  I  came  to  a  big  mansion  where  foot- 
guards  stood  sentry  at  the  wall  gates.  This 
house  was  further  distinguished  from  its  neigh- 
bors by  the  presence  of  a  policeman  pacing 
alongside  it,  and  a  newspaper  photographer 
setting  up  his  tripod  and  camera  in  the  road, 
and  a  small  knot  of  passers-by  lingering  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  as  though  waiting  for 
somebody  to  come  along  or  something  to  happen. 
I  waited  too.  In  a  minute  a  handsome  old  man 
and  a  well-set-up  young  man  turned  the  corner 
afoot.  The  younger  man  was  leading  a  beauti- 
ful stag  hound.  The  photographer  touched  his 
hat  and  said  something,  and  the  younger  man 
smiling  a  good-natured  smile,  obligingly  posed 
in  the  street  for  a  picture.  At  this  precise  mo- 
ment a  dirigible  balloon  came  careening  over 
the  chimneypots  on  a  cross-London  air  jaunt; 
and  at  the  sight  of  it  the  little  crowd  left  the 
young  man  and  the  photographer  and  set  off 
at  a  run  to  follow,  as  far  as  they  might,  the 
course  of  the  balloon.  Now  in  America  this 
could  not  have  occurred,  for  the  balloon  man 
would  not  have  been  aloft  at  such  an  hour.  He 
would  have  been  on  the  earth;  moreover  he 
would  have  been  outside  the  walls  of  that  man- 
[321] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


sion  house,  along  with  half  a  million,  more  or 
less,  of  his  patriotic  fellow  countrymen,  tearing 
his  own  clothes  off  and  their  clothes  off,  trampling 
the  weak  and  sickly  underfoot,  bucking  the 
doubled  and  tripled  police  lines  in  a  mad,  vain 
effort  to  see  the  flagpole  on  the  roof  or  a  corner 
of  the  rear  garden  wall.  For  that  house  was 
Clarence  House,  and  the  young  man  who  posed 
so  accommodatingly  for  the  photographer  was 
none  other  than  Prince  Arthur  of  Connaught, 
who  was  getting  himself  married  the  very  next 
day. 

The  next  day  I  beheld  from  a  short  distance 
the  passing  of  the  bridal  procession.  Though 
there  were  crowds  all  along  the  route  followed 
by  the  wedding  party,  there  was  no  scrouging, 
no  shoving,  no  fighting,  no  disorderly  scramble, 
no  unseemly  congestion  about  the  chapel  where 
the  ceremony  took  place.  It  reminded  me 
vividly  of  that  which  inevitably  happens  when 
a  millionaire's  daughter  is  being  married  to  a 
duke  in  a  fashionable  Fifth  Avenue  church — it 
reminded  me  of  that  because  it  was  so  different. 

Fortunately  for  us  we  were  so  placed  that  we 
saw  quite  distinctly  the  entrance  of  the  wedding 
party  into  the  chapel  inclosure.  Personally  I 
was  most  concerned  with  the  members  of  the 
royal  house.  As  I  recollect,  they  passed  in  the 
following  order: 

His  Majesty,  King  George  the  Fifth. 

Her  Majesty,  Queen  Mary,  the  Other  Four- 
Fifths. 

[322] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

Small  fractional  royalties  to  the  number  of  a 
dozen  or  more. 

I  got  a  clear  view  of  the  side  face  of  the  queen. 
As  one  looked  on  her  profile,  which  was  what 
you  might  call  firm,  and  saw  the  mild-looking 
little  king,  who  seemed  quite  eclipsed  by  her 
presence,  one  understood — or  anyway  one 
thought  one  understood — why  an  English  as- 
semblage, when  standing  to  chant  the  national 
anthem  these  times,  always  puts  such  fervor  and 
meaning  into  the  first  line  of  it. 

Only  one  untoward  incident  occurred:  The 
inevitable  militant  lady  broke  through  the  lines 
as  the  imperial  carriage  passed  and  threw  a 
Votes  for  Women  handbill  into  His  Majesty's 
lap.  She  was  removed  thence  by  the  police  with 
the  skill  and  dexterity  of  long  practice.  The 
police  were  competently  on  the  job.  They  al- 
ways are — which  brings  me  round  to  the  subject 
of  the  London  bobby  and  leads  me  to  venture 
the  assertion  that  individually  and  collectively, 
personally  and  officially,  he  is  a  splendid  piece 
of  work.  The  finest  thing  in  London  is  the 
London  policeman  and  the  worst  thing  is  the 
shamefully  small  and  shabby  pay  he  gets.  He 
is  majestic  because  he  represents  the  majesty  of 
the  English  law;  he  is  humble  and  obliging  be- 
cause, as  a  servant,  he  serves  the  people  who 
make  the  law.  And  always  he  knows  his  busi- 
ness. 

In  Charing  Cross,  where  all  roads  meet  and 
snarl  up  in  the  bewildering  semblance  of  many 
[3231 


EUROPE    REVISED 


fishing  worms  in  a  can,  I  ventured  out  into  the 
roadway  to  ask  a  policeman  the  best  route  for 
reaching  a  place  in  a  somewhat  obscure  quarter. 
He  threw  up  his  arm,  semaphore  fashion,  first 
to  this  point  of  the  compass  and  then  to  that, 
and  traffic  halted  instantly.  As  far  as  the  eye 
might  reach  it  halted;  and  it  stayed  halted,  too, 
while  he  searched  his  mind  and  gave  me  care- 
fully and  painstakingly  the  directions  for  which 
I  sought.  In  that  packed  mass  of  cabs  and  taxis 
and  busses  and  carriages  there  were  probably 
dukes  and  archbishops — dukes  and  archbishops 
are  always  fussing  about  in  London — but  they 
waited  until  he  was  through  directing  me.  It 
flattered  me  so  that  I  went  back  to  the  hotel 
and  put  on  a  larger  hat.  I  sincerely  hope  there 
was  at  least  one  archbishop. 

Another  time  we  went  to  Paddington  to  take 
a  train  for  somewhere.  Following  the  custom 
of  the  country  we  took  along  our  trunks  and 
traps  on  top  of  the  taxicab.  At  the  moment  of 
our  arrival  there  were  no  porters  handy,  so  a 
policeman  on  post  outside  the  station  jumped 
forward  on  the  instant  and  helped  our  chauffeur 
to  wrestle  the  luggage  down  on  the  bricks. 
When  I,  rallying  somewhat  from  the  shock  of 
this,  thanked  him  and  slipped  a  coin  into  his 
palm,  he  said  in  effect  that,  though  he  was 
obliged  for  the  shilling,  I  must  not  feel  that  I 
had  to  give  him  anything — that  it  was  part  of 
his  duty  to  aid  the  public  in  these  small  matters. 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  tried  to  imagine  a  New  York 
[324] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

policeman  doing  as  much  for  an  unknown  alien; 
but  the  effort  gave  me  a  severe  headache.  It 
gave  me  darting  pains  across  the  top  of  the  skull 
—at  about  the  spot  where  he  would  probably 
have  belted  me  with  his  club  had  I  even  dared 
to  ask  him  to  bear  a  hand  with  my  baggage. 

I  had  a  peep  into  the  workings  of  the  system 
of  which  the  London  bobby  is  a  spoke  when  I 
went  to  what  is  the  very  hub  of  the  wheel  of 
the  common  law — a  police  court.  I  understood 
then  what  gave  the  policeman  in  the  street  his 
authority  and  his  dignity — and  his  humility — 
when  I  saw  how  carefully  the  magistrate  on  the 
bench  weighed  each  trifling  cause  and  each 
petty  case;  how  surely  he  winnowed  out  the 
small  grain  of  truth  from  the  gross  and  tare  of 
surmise  and  fiction;  how  particular  he  was  to 
give  of  the  abundant  store  of  his  patience  to  any 
whining  ragpicker  or  street  beggar  who  faced 
him,  whether  as  defendant  at  the  bar,  or  ac- 
cuser, or  witness. 

It  was  the  very  body  of  the  law,  though,  we 
saw  a  few  days  after  this  when  by  invitation 
we  witnessed  the  procession  at  the  opening  of 
the  high  courts.  Considered  from  the  stand- 
points of  picturesqueness  and  impressiveness 
it  made  one's  pulses  tingle  when  those  thirty 
or  forty  men  of  tfye  wig  and  ermine  marched  in 
single  and  double  file  down  the  loftily  vaulted 
hall,  with  the  Lord  Chancellor  in  wig  and  robes 
of  state  leading,  and  Sir  Rufus  Isaacs,  knee- 
breeched  and  sword-belted,  a  pace  or  two  be- 
[3251 


EUROPE'  REVISED 


hind  him;  and  then,  in  turn,  the  justices;  and, 
going  on  ahead  of  them  and  following  on  behind 
them,  knight  escorts  and  ushers  and  clerks  and 
all  the  other  human  cogs  of  the  great  machine. 
What  struck  into  me  deepest,  however,  was  the 
look  of  nearly  every  one  of  the  judges.  Had 
they  been  dressed  as  longshoremen,  one  would 
still  have  known  them  for  possessors  of  the 
judicial  temperament — men  born  to  hold  the 
balances  and  fitted  and  trained  to  winnow  out 
the  wheat  from  the  chaff.  So  many  eagle-beaked 
noses,  so  many  hawk-keen  eyes,  so  many  smooth- 
chopped,  long-jowled  faces,  seen  here  together, 
made  me  think  of  what  we  are  prone  to  regard 
as  the  highwater  period  of  American  statesman- 
ship— the  Clay-Calhoun-Benton-Webster  pe- 
riod. 

Just  watching  these  men  pass  helped  me  to 
know  better  than  any  reading  I  had  ever  done 
why  the  English  have  faith  and  confidence  in 
their  courts.  I  said  to  myself  that  if  I  wanted 
justice — exact  justice,  heaping  high  in  the  scales 
— I  should  come  to  this  shop  and  give  my  trade 
to  the  old-established  firm;  but  if  I  were  looking 
for  a  little  mercy  I  should  take  my  custom  else- 
where. 

I  cannot  tell  why  I  associate  it  in  my  mind 
with  this  grouped  spectacle  of  the  lords  of  the 
law,  but  somehow  the  scene  to  be  witnessed  in 
Hyde  Park  just  inside  the  Marble  Arch  of  a 
Sunday  evening  seems  bound  up  somehow  with 
the  other  institution.  They  call  this  place  Lon- 
[326] 


HE  WOULD  WRITE  A  LETTER  TO   "THE  TIMES"  COMPLAINING  OF  THE  GROWING 
PREVALENCE  OF  LIONS  IN  THE  PUBLIC  THOROUGHFARES 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

don's  safety  valve.  It's  all  of  that.  Long  ago 
the  ruling  powers  discovered  that  if  the  rabidly 
discontented  were  permitted  to  preach  dyna- 
mite and  destruction  unlimited  they  would  not 
be  so  apt  to  practice  their  cheerful  doctrines. 
So,  without  let  or  hindrance,  any  apostle  of  any 
creed,  cult  or  propaganda,  however  lurid  and 
revolutionary,  may  come  here  of  a  Sunday  to 
meet  with  his  disciples  and  spout  forth  the  faith 
that  is  in  him  until  he  has  geysered  himself  into 
peace,  or,  what  comes  to  the  same  thing,  into 
speechlessness. 

When  I  went  to  Hyde  Park  on  a  certain 
Sunday  rain  was  falling  and  the  crowds  were 
not  so  large  as  usual,  a  bored  policeman  on  duty 
in  this  outdoor  forum  told  me;  still,  at  that, 
there  must  have  been  two  or  three  thousand 
listeners  in  sight  and  not  less  than  twelve  speak- 
ers. These  latter  balanced  themselves  on  small 
portable  platforms  placed  in  rows,  with  such 
short  spaces  between  them  that  their  voices 
intermingled  confusingly.  In  front  of  each  or- 
ator stood  his  audience;  sometimes  they  ap- 
plauded what  he  said  in  a  sluggish  British  way, 
and  sometimes  they  asked  him  questions  de- 
signed to  baffle  or  perplex  him — heckling,  I 
believe  this  is  called — but  there  was  never  any 
suggestion  of  disorder  and  never  any  violent 
demonstration  for  or  against  a  statement  made 
by  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  line  nearest  the  Arch,  under 
a  flary  light,  stood  an  old  bearded  man  having 
[329] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  look  on  his  face  of  a  kindly  but  somewhat 
irritated  moo-cow.  At  the  moment  I  drew  near 
he  was  having  a  long  and  involved  argument 
with  another  controversialist  touching  on  the 
sense  of  the  word  tabernacle  as  employed  Scrip- 
turally,  one  holding  it  to  mean  the  fleshly  tene- 
ment of  the  soul  and  the  other  an  actual  place 
of  worship.  The  old  man  had  two  favorite 
words — behoove  and  emit — but  behoove  was 
evidently  his  choice.  As  an  emitter  he  was 
only  fair,  but  he  was  the  best  behoover  I  ever 
saw  anywhere. 

The  orator  next  to  him  was  speaking  in  a  soft, 
sentimental  tone,  with  gestures  gently  appropri- 
ate. I  moved  along  to  him,  being  minded  to 
learn  what  particular  brand  of  brotherly  love 
he  might  be  expounding.  In  the  same  tone  a 
good  friend  might  employ  in  telling  you  what 
to  do  for  chapped  lips  or  a  fever  blister  he  was 
saying  that  clergymen  and  armaments  were  use- 
less and  expensive  burdens  on  the  common- 
wealth; and,  as  a  remedy,  he  was  advocating 
that  all  the  priests  and  all  the  preachers  in  the 
kingdom  should  be  loaded  on  all  the  dread- 
noughts, and  then  the  dreadnoughts  should  be 
steamed  to  the  deepest  part  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  and  there  cozily  scuttled,  with  all  on 
board. 

There  was  scattering  applause  and  a  voice: 
"Ow,  don't  do  that!  Listen,  'ere!  Hi've  got 
a  better  plan."  But  the  next  speaker  was  blar- 
ing away  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  making  threat- 
[330] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

ening  faces  and  waving  his  clenched  fists  aloft 
and  pounding  with  them  on  the  top  of  his 
rostrum. 

"Now  this,"  I  said  to  myself,  "is  going  to 
be  something  worth  while.  Surely  this  per- 
son would  not  be  content  merely  with  drowning 
all  the  parsons  and  sinking  all  the  warships  in 
the  hole  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Undoubtedly 
he  will  advocate  something  really  radical.  I  will 
invest  five  minutes  with  him." 

I  did;  but  I  was  sold.  He  was  favoring  the 
immediate  adoption  of  a  universal  tongue  for 
all  the  peoples  of  the  earth — that  was  all.  I  did 
not  catch  the  name  of  his  universal  language, 
but  I  judged  the  one  at  which  he  would  excel 
would  be  a  language  with  few  if  any  h's  in  it. 
After  this  disappointment  I  lost  heart  and  came 
away. 

Another  phase,  though  a  very  different  one, 
of  the  British  spirit  of  fair  play  and  tolerance, 
was  shown  to  me  at  the  National  Sporting  Club, 
which  is  the  British  shrine  of  boxing,  where  I 
saw  a  fight  for  one  of  the  championship  belts 
that  Lord  Lonsdale  is  forever  bestowing  on  this 
or  that  worshipful  fisticuffer.  Instead  of  being 
inside  the  ring  prying  the  fighters  apart  by  main 
force  as  he  would  have  been  doing  in  America, 
the  referee,  dressed  in  evening  clothes,  was  out- 
side the  ropes.  At  a  snapped  word  from  him 
the  fighters  broke  apart  from  clinches  on  the 
instant.  The  audience — a  very  mixed  one,  rang- 
ing in  garb  from  broadcloths  to  shoddies — was 
[331] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


as  quick  to  approve  a  telling  blow  by  the  less 
popular  fighter  as  to  hiss  any  suggestion  of 
trickiness  or  fouling  on  the  part  of  the  favorite. 
When  a  contestant  in  one  of  the  preliminary 
goes,  having  been  adjudged  a  loser  on  points, 
objected  to  the  decision  and  insisted  on  being 
heard  in  his  own  behalf,  the  crowd,  though 
plainly  not  in  sympathy  with  his  contention, 
listened  to  what  he  had  to  say.  Nobody  jeered 
him  down. 

Had  he  been  a  foreigner  and  especially  had 
he  been  an  American  I  am  inclined  to  think  the 
situation  might  have  been  different.  I  seem  to 
recall  what  happened  once  when  a  certain  mid- 
dleweight from  this  side  went  over  there  and 
broke  the  British  heart  by  licking  the  British 
champion;  and  again  what  happened  when  a 
Yankee  boy  won  the  Marathon  at  the  Olympic 
games  in  London  a  few  years  ago.  But  as  this 
man  was  a  Briton  himself  these  other  Britons 
harkened  to  his  sputterings,  for  England,  you 
know,  grants  the  right  of  free  speech  to  all 
Englishmen — and  denies  it  to  all  Englishwomen. 

The  settled  Englishman  declines  always  to  be 
jostled  out  of  his  hereditary  state  of  intense 
calm.  They  tell  of  a  man  who  dashed  into  the 
reading  room  of  the  Savage  Club  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  a  lion  was  loose  on  the  Strand 
— a  lion  that  had  escaped  from  a  traveling 
caravan  and  was  rushing  madly  to  and  fro, 
scaring  horses  and  frightening  pedestrians. 

"Great  excitement!  Most  terrific,  old  dears 
[332] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

— on  my  word!"  he  added,  addressing  the  com- 
pany. 

Over  the  top  of  the  Pink  Un  an  elderly  gentle- 
man of  a  full  habit  of  life  regarded  him  sourly. 

"Is  that  any  reason,"  he  inquired,  "why  a 
person  should  rush  into  a  gentleman's  club  and 
kick  up  such  a  deuced  hullabaloo?" 

The  first  man — he  must  have  been  a  Colonial 
— gazed  at  the  other  man  in  amazement. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  would  you  do  if 
you  met  a  savage  lion  loose  on  the  Strand?" 

"Sir,  I  should  take  a  cab!" 

And  after  meeting  an  Englishman  or  two  of 
this  type  I  am  quite  prepared  to  say  the  story 
might  have  been  a  true  one.  If  he  met  a  lion 
on  the  Strand  to-day  he  would  take  a  cab;  but 
if  to-morrow,  walking  in  the  same  place,  he  met 
two  lions,  he  would  write  a  letter  to  the  Times 
complaining  of  the  growing  prevalence  of  lions 
in  the  public  thoroughfares  and  placing  the 
blame  on  the  Suffragettes  or  Lloyd  George  or 
the  Nonconformists  or  the  increasing  discontent 
of  the  working  classes — that  is  what  he  would  do. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  he  met  a  squirrel  on  a 
street  in  America  it  would  be  a  most  extraordi- 
nary thing.  Extraordinary  would  undoubtedly 
be  the  word  he  would  use  to  describe  it.  Lions 
on  the  Strand  would  be  merely  annoying,  but 
chipmunks  on  Broadway  would  constitute  a 
striking  manifestation  of  the  unsettled  conditions 
existing  in  a  wild  and  misgoverned  land;  for, 
you  see,  to  every  right-minded  Englishman  of 
[333] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  insular  variety — and  that  is  the  commonest 
variety  there  is  in  England — whatever  happens 
at  home  is  but  part  of  an  orderly  and  an 
ordered  scheme  of  things,  whereas  whatever 
happens  beyond  the  British  domains  must  neces- 
sarily be  highly  unusual  and  exceedingly  disor- 
ganizing. If  so  be  it  happens  on  English  soil 
he  can  excuse  it.  He  always  has  an  explanation 
or  an  extenuation  handy.  But  if  it  happens 
elsewhere — well,  there  you  are,  you  see!  What 
was  it  somebody  once  called  England — Perfid- 
ious Alibi-in',  wasn't  it  ?  Anyhow  that  was  what 
he  meant.  The  party's  intentions  were  good 
but  his  spelling  was  faulty. 

An  Englishman's  newspapers  help  him  to  at- 
tain this  frame  of  mind;  for  an  English  news- 
paper does  not  print  sensational  stories  about 
Englishmen  residing  in  England;  it  prints  them 
about  people  resident  in  other  lands.  There  is 
a  good  reason  for  this  and  the  reason  is  based 
on  prudence.  In  the  first  place  the  private  life 
of  a  private  individual  is  a  most  holy  thing,  with 
which  the  papers  dare  not  meddle;  besides,  the 
paper  that  printed  a  faked-up  tale  about  a  pri- 
vate citizen  in  England  would  speedily  be  ex- 
posed and  also  extensively  sued.  As  for  public 
men,  they  are  protected  by  exceedingly  stringent 
libel  laws.  As  nearly  as  I  might  judge,  anything 
true  you  printed  about  an  English  politician 
would  be  libelous,  and  anything  libelous  you 
printed  about  him  would  be  true. 

It  befalls,  therefore,  as  I  was  told  on  most 
[334] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

excellent  authority,  that  when  the  editor  of  a 
live  London  daily  finds  the  local  grist  to  be  dull 
and  uninteresting  reading  he  straightway  cables 
to  his  American  correspondent  or  his  Paris  cor- 
respondent— these  two  being  his  main  standbys 
for  sensations — asking,  if  his  choice  falls  on  the 
man  in  America,  for  a  snappy  dispatch,  say, 
about  an  American  train  smash-up,  or  a  Nature 
freak,  or  a  scandal  in  high  society  with  a  rich 
man  mixed  up  in  it.  He  wires  for  it,  and  in  reply 
he  gets  it.  I  have  been  in  my  time  a  country 
correspondent  for  city  papers,  and  I  know  that 
what  Mr.  Editor  wants  Mr.  Editor  gets. 

As  a  result  America,  to  the  provincial  English- 
man's understanding,  is  a  land  where  a  hunter 
is  always  being  nibbled  to  death  by  sheep;  or  a 
prospective  mother  is  being  so  badly  frightened 
by  a  chameleon  that  her  child  is  born  with  a  com- 
plexion changeable  at  will  and  an  ungovernable 
appetite  for  flies;  or  a  billionaire  is  giving  a 
monkey  dinner  or  poisoning  his  wife,  or  some- 
thing. Also,  he  gets  the  idea  that  a  through 
train  in  this  country  is  so  called  because  it  in- 
variably runs  through  the  train  ahead  of  it; 
and  that  when  a  man  in  Connecticut  is  expecting 
a  friend  on  the  fast  express  from  Boston,  and 
wants  something  to  remember  him  by,  he  goes 
down  to  the  station  at  traintime  with  a  bucket. 
Under  the  headlining  system  of  the  English  news- 
papers the  derailment  of  a  work-train  in  Arizona, 
wherein  several  Mexican  tracklayers  get  mussed 
up,  becomes  Another  Frightful  American  Rail- 
[3351 


EUROPE    REVISED 


way  Disaster!  But  a  head-on  collision,  attended 
by  fatalities,  in  the  suburbs  of  Liverpool  or 
Manchester  is  a  Distressing  Suburban  Incident. 
Yet  the  official  Blue  Book,  issued  by  the  British 
Board  of  Trade,  showed  that  in  the  three  months 
ending  March  31,  1913,  284  persons  were  killed 
and  2,457  were  injured  on  railway  lines  in  the 
United  Kingdom. 

Just  as  an  English  gentleman  is  the  most  mod- 
est person  imaginable,  and  the  most  backward 
about  offering  lip-service  in  praise  of  his  own 
achievements  or  his  country's  achievements,  so, 
in  the  same  superlative  degree,  some  of  his 
newspapers  are  the  most  blatant  of  boasters. 
About  the  time  we  were  leaving  England  the 
job  of  remodeling  and  beautifying  the  front 
elevation  of  Buckingham  Palace  reached  its 
conclusion,  and  a  dinner  was  given  to  the  work- 
ingmen  who  for  some  months  had  been  engaged 
on  the  contract.  It  had  been  expected  that  the 
occasion  would  be  graced  by  the  presence  of 
Their  Majesties;  but  the  king,  as  I  recall,  was 
pasting  stamps  in  the  new  album  the  Czar  of 
Russia  sent  him  on  his  birthday,  and  the 
queen  was  looking  through  the  files  of  Godey's 
Lady's  Book  for  the  year  1874,  picking  out 
suitable  costumes  for  the  ladies  of  her  court  to 
wear.  At  any  rate  they  could  not  attend. 
Otherwise,  though,  the  dinner  must  have  been 
a  success.  Reading  the  account  of  it  as  pub- 
lished next  morning  in  a  London  paper,  I  learned 
that  some  of  the  guests,  "with  rare  British 
[336] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

pluck,"  wore  their  caps  and  corduroys;  that 
others,  "with  true  British  independence," 
smoked  their  pipes  after  dinner;  that  there  was 
"real  British  beef"  and  "genuine  British  plum 
pudding"  on  the  menu;  and  that  repeatedly 
those  present  uttered  "hearty  British  cheers." 
From  top  to  bottom  the  column  was  studded 
thick  with  British  thises  and  British  thats. 

Yet  the  editorial  writers  of  that  very  paper 
are  given  to  frequent  and  sneering  attacks  on 
the  alleged  yellowness  and  the  boasting  pro- 
clivities of  the  jingo  Yankee  sheets;  also,  they 
are  prone  to  spasmodic  attacks  on  the  laxity  of 
our  marriage  laws.  Perhaps  what  they  say  of 
us  is  true;  but  for  unadulterated  nastiness  I 
never  saw  anything  in  print  to  equal  the  front 
page  of  a  so-called  sporting  weekly  that  cir- 
culates freely  in  London,  and  I  know  of  nothing 
to  compare  with  the  brazen  exhibition  of  a 
certain  form  of  vice  that  is  to  be  witnessed 
nightly  in  the  balconies  of  two  of  London's 
largest  music  halls.  It  was  upon  the  program 
of  another  London  theater  that  I  came  across 
the  advertisement  of  a  lady  styling  herself 
"London's  Woman  Detective"  and  stating,  in  so 
many  words,  that  her  specialties  were  "Divorce 
Shado wings"  and  "Secret  Inquiries."  Maybe 
it  is  a  fact  that  in  certain  of  our  states  marriage 
is  not  so  much  a  contract  as  a  ninety-day  op- 
tion, but  the  lady  detective  who  does  divorce 
shadowing  and  advertises  her  qualifications 
publicly  has  not  opened  up  her  shop  among  us. 
[337] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


In  the  campaign  to  give  the  stay-at-home 
Englishman  a  strange  conception  of  his  Amer- 
ican kinsman  the  press  is  ably  assisted  by  the 
stage.  In  London  I  went  to  see  a  comedy  writ- 
ten by  a  deservedly  successful  dramatist,  and 
staged,  I  think,  under  his  personal  direction. 
The  English  characters  in  the  play  were  whim- 
sical and,  as  nearly  as  I  might  judge,  true  to 
the  classes  they  purported  to  represent.  There 
was  an  American  character  in  this  piece  too — 
a  multimillionaire,  of  course,  and  a  collector  of 
pictures — presumably  a  dramatically  fair  and 
realistic  drawing  of  a  wealthy,  successful,  art- 
loving  American .  I  have  forgotten  now  whether 
he  was  supposed  to  be  one  of  our  meaty  Chicago 
millionaires,  or  one  of  our  oily  Cleveland  mil- 
lionaires, or  one  of  our  steely  Pittsburgh  mil- 
lionaires, or  just  a  plain  millionaire  from  the 
country  at  large;  and  I  doubt  whether  the 
man  who  wrote  the  lines  had  any  conception 
when  he  did  write  them  of  the  fashion  in  which 
they  were  afterward  read.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
actor  who  essayed  to  play  the  American  used 
an  inflection,  or  an  accent,  or  a  dialect,  or  a 
jargon — or  whatever  you  might  choose  to  call 
it — which  was  partly  of  the  oldtime  drawly  Wild 
Western  school  of  expression  and  partly  of  the 
oldtime  nasal  Down  East  school.  I  had  thought — 
and  had  hoped — that  both  these  actor-created 
lingoes  were  happily  obsolete;  but  in  their  full 
flower  of  perfection  I  now  heard  them  here  in 
London.  Also,  the  actor  who  played  the  part 
[338] 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

interpreted  the  physical  angles  of  the  character 
in  a  manner  to  suggest  a  pleasing  combination 
of  Uncle  Joshua  Whitcomb,  Mike  the  Bite,  Jef- 
ferson Brick  and  Coal-Oil  Johnny,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  Jesse  James  interspersed  here  and 
there.  True,  he  spat  not  on  the  carpet  loudly, 
and  he  refrained  from  saying  I  vum!  and  Great 
Snakes! — quaint  conceits  that,  I  am  told,  every 
English  actor  who  respected  his  art  formerly 
employed  when  wishful  to  type  a  stage  American 
for  an  English  audience;  but  he  bragged  loudly 
and  emphatically  of  his  money  and  of  how  he 
got  it  and  of  what  he  would  do  with  it.  I  do 
not  perceive  why  it  is  the  English,  who  them- 
selves so  dearly  love  the  dollar  after  it 
is  translated  into  terms  of  pounds,  shill- 
ings and  pence,  should  insist  on  regarding 
us  as  a  nation  of  dollar-grabbers,  when  they 
only  see  us  in  the  act  of  freely  dispensing  the 
aforesaid  dollar. 

They  do  so  regard  us,  though;  and,  with  true 
British  setness,  I  suppose  they  always  will. 
Even  so  I  think  that,  though  they  may  dislike 
us  as  a  nation,  they  like  us  as  individuals;  and 
it  is  certainly  true  that  they  seem  to  value  us 
more  highly  than  they  value  Colonials,  as  they 
call  them — particularly  Canadian  Colonials.  It 
would  appear  that  your  true  Briton  can  never 
excuse  another  British  subject  for  the  shock- 
ingly poor  taste  he  displayed  in  being  born 
away  from  home.  And,  though  in  time  he  may 
forgive  us  for  refusing  to  be  licked  by  him,  he 
[339] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


can  never  forgive  the  Colonials  for  saving  him 
from  being  licked  in  South  Africa. 

When  I  started  in  to  write  this  chapter  I 
meant  to  conclude  it  with  an  apology  for  my 
audacity  in  undertaking — in  any  wise — to  sum 
up  the  local  characteristics  of  a  country  where 
I  had  tarried  for  so  short  a  time;  but  I  have 
changed  my  mind  about  that.  I  have  merely 
borrowed  a  page  from  the  book  of  rules  of  the 
British  essayists  and  novelists  who  come  over 
here  to  write  us  up.  Why,  bless  your  soul,  I 
gave  nearly  eight  weeks  of  time  to  the  task  of 
seeing  Europe  thoroughly;  and  of  those  eight 
weeks  I  spent  upward  of  three  weeks  in  and 
about  London — indeed,  a  most  unreasonably 
long  time  when  measured  by  the  standards  of 
the  Englishman  of  letters  who  does  a  book 
about  us. 

He  has  his  itinerary  all  mapped  out  in  ad- 
vance. He  will  squander  a  whole  week  on  us. 
We  are  scarcely  worth  it;  but,  such  as  we  are, 
we  shall  have  a  week  of  his  company !  Landing 
on  Monday  morning,  he  will  spend  Monday  in 
New  York,  Tuesday  in  San  Francisco,  and  Wed- 
nesday in  New  Orleans.  Thursday  he  will  divide 
between  Boston  and  Chicago,  devoting  the  fore- 
noon to  one  and  the  afternoon  to  the  other. 
Friday  morning  he  will  range  through  the  Rocky 
Mountains;  and  after  luncheon,  if  he  is  not  too 
fatigued,  he  will  take  a  carriage  and  pop  in  on 
Yosemite  Valley  for  an  hour  or  so. 

But  Saturday — all  of  it — will  be  given  over 
[3401 


BRITAIN    IN    TWENTY    MINUTES 

to  the  Far  Southland.  He  is  going  'way  down 
South — to  sunny  South  Dakota,  in  fact,  to  see 
the  genuine  native  American  darkies,  the  real 
Yankee  blackamoors.  Most  interesting  beings, 
the  blackamoors !  They  live  exclusively  on  poul- 
try— fowls,  you  know — and  all  their  women  folk 
are  named  Honey  Gal. 

He  will  observe  them  in  their  hours  of  leisure, 
when,  attired  in  their  national  costume,  con- 
sisting of  white  duck  breeches,  banjos,  and 
striped  shirts  with  high  collars,  they  gather  be- 
neath the  rays  of  the  silvery  Southern  moon  to 
sing  their  tribal  melodies  on  the  melon-lined 
shores  of  the  old  Oswego;  and  by  day  he  will 
study  them  at  their  customary  employment  as 
they  climb  from  limb  to  limb  of  the  cottonwood 
trees,  picking  cotton.  On  Sunday  he  will  ar- 
range and  revise  his  notes,  and  on  Monday 
morning  he  will  sail  for  home. 

Such  is  the  program  of  Solomon  Grundy, 
Esquire,  the  distinguished  writing  Englishman; 
but  on  his  arrival  he  finds  the  country  to  be 
somewhat  larger  than  he  expected — larger  actu- 
ally than  the  Midlands.  So  he  compromises  by 
spending  five  days  at  a  private  hotel  in  New 
York,  run  by  a  very  worthy  and  deserving 
Englishwoman  of  the  middle  classes,  where  one 
may  get  Yorkshire  puddings  every  day;  and  two 
days  more  at  a  wealthy  tufthunter's  million-dol- 
lar cottage  at  Newport,  studying  the  habits  and 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  common  people.  And  then 
he  rushes  back  to  England  and  hurriedly  em- 
[341] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


balms  his  impressions  of  us  in  a  large  volume, 
stating  it  to  be  his  deliberate  opinion  that, 
though  we  mean  well  enough,  we  won't  do — 
really.  He  necessarily  has  to  hurry,  because, 
you  see,  he  has  a  contract  to  write  a  novel  or  a 
play — or  both  a  novel  and  a  play — with  Lord 
Northcliffe  as  the  central  figure.  In  these  days 
practically  all  English  novels  and  most  English 
comedies  play  up  Lord  Northcliffe  as  the  central 
figure.  Almost  invariably  the  young  English 
writer  chooses  him  for  the  axis  about  which  his 
plot  shall  revolve.  English  journalists  who  have 
been  discharged  from  one  of  Northcliffe's  publi- 
cations make  him  their  villain,  and  English 
journalists  who  hope  to  secure  jobs  on  one  of 
his  publications  make  him  their  hero.  The  liter- 
ature of  a  land  is  in  perilous  case  when  it  depends 
on  the  personality  of  one  man.  One  shudders 
to  think  what  the  future  of  English  fiction  would 
be  should  anything  happen  to  His  Lordship! 
Business  of  shuddering! 


[342] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
GUYED  OR  GUIDED? 


DURING  our  scientific  explorations  in 
the  Eastern  Hemisphere  we  met  two 
guides  who  had  served  the  late  Samuel 
L.  Clemens,  one  who  had  served  the 
late  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  and  one  who  had  acted 
as  courier  to  ex-President  Theodore  Roosevelt. 
After  inquiry  among  persons  who  were  also 
lately  abroad  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  my  experience  in  this  regard  was  remark- 
able, not  because  I  met  so  many  as  four  of  the 
guides  who  had  attended  these  distinguished 
Americans,  but  because  I  met  so  few  as  four  of 
them.  One  man  with  whom  I  discussed  the 
matter  told  of  having  encountered,  in  the  course 
of  a  brief  scurry  across  Europe,  five  members  in 
good  standing  of  the  International  Association 
of  Former  Guides  to  Mark  Twain.  All  of  them 
had  union  cards  to  prove  it  too.  Others  said 
that  in  practically  every  city  of  any  size  visited 
by  them  there  was  a  guide  who  told  of  his  deep 
attachment  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Morgan,  and 
[343] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


described  how  Mr.  Morgan  had  hired  him  with- 
out inquiring  in  advance  what  his  rate  for 
professional  services  a  day  would  be;  and  how 
—lingering  with  wistful  emphasis  on  the  words 
along  here  and  looking  meaningly  the  while  at 
the  present  patron — how  very,  very  generous 
Mr.  Morgan  had  been  in  bestowing  gratuities 
on  parting. 

Our  first  experience  with  guides  was  at  West- 
minster Abbey.  As  it  happened,  this  guide  was 
one  of  the  Mark  Twain  survivors.  I  think, 
though,  he  was  genuine;  he  had  documents  of 
apparent  authenticity  in  his  possession  to  help 
him  in  proving  up  his  title.  Anyhow,  he  knew 
his  trade.  He  led  us  up  and  down  those  parts 
of  the  Abbey  which  are  free  to  the  general  public 
and  brought  us  finally  to  a  wicket  gate,  opening 
on  the  royal  chapels,  which  was  as  far  as  he 
could  go.  There  he  turned  us  over  to  a  severe- 
looking  dignitary  in  robes — an  archbishop,  I 
judged,  or  possibly  only  a  canon — who,  on  pay- 
ment by  us  of  a  shilling  a  head,  escorted  our 
party  through  the  remaining  inclosures,  showing 
us  the  tombs  of  England's  queens  and  kings,  or 
a  good  many  of  them  anyway;  and  the  Black 
Prince's  helmet  and  breastplate;  and  the  ex- 
quisite chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  and  the 
ancient  chair  on  which  all  the  kings  sat  for  their 
coronations,  with  the  famous  Scotch  Stone  of 
Scone  under  it. 

The  chair  itself  was  not  particularly  impres- 
sive. It  was  not  nearly  so  rickety  and  decrepit 
[344] 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


as  the  chairs  one  sees  in  almost  any  London 
barber  shop.  Nor  was  my  emotion  particularly 
excited  by  the  stone.  I  would  engage  to  get  a 
better-looking  one  out  of  the  handiest  rock 
quarry  inside  of  twenty  minutes.  This  stone 
should  not  be  confused  with  the  ordinary  scones, 
which  also  come  from  Scotland  and  which  are 
by  some  regarded  as  edible. 

What  did  seem  to  us  rather  a  queer  thing  was 
that  the  authorities  of  Westminster  should  make 
capital  of  the  dead  rulers  of  the  realm  and,  ex- 
cept on  certain  days  of  the  week,  should  charge 
an  admission  fee  to  their  sepulchers.  Later,  on 
the  Continent,  we  sustained  an  even  more  severe 
shock  when  we  saw  royal  palaces — palaces  that 
on  occasion  are  used  by  the  royal  proprietors — 
with  the  quarters  of  the  monarchs  upstairs  and 
downstairs  novelty  shops  and  tourist  agencies 
and  restaurants,  and  the  like  of  that.  I  jotted 
down  a  few  crisp  notes  concerning  these  matters, 
my  intention  being  to  comment  on  them  as 
evidence  of  an  incomprehensible  thrift  on  the 
part  of  our  European  kins-people;  but  on  second 
thought  I  decided  to  refrain  from  so  doing.  I 
recalled  the  fact  that  we  ourselves  are  not  entirely 
free  from  certain  petty  national  economies. 
Abroad  we  house  our  embassies  up  back  streets, 
next  door  to  bird  and  animal  stores;  and  at 
home  there  is  many  a  public  institution  where 
the  doormat  says  Welcome!  in  large  letters,  but 
the  soap  is  chained  and  the  roller  towel  is  pad- 
locked to  its  little  roller. 

[3451 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Guides  are  not  particularly  numerous  in  Eng- 
land. Even  in  the  places  most  frequented  by 
the  sightseer  they  do  not  abound  in  any  pro- 
fusion. At  Madame  Tussaud's,  for  example,  we 
found  only  one  guide.  We  encountered  him 
just  after  we  had  spent  a  mournful  five  minutes 
in  contemplation  of  ex-President  Taft.  Friends 
and  acquaintances  of  Mr.  Taft  will  be  shocked 
to  note  the  great  change  in  him  when  they  see 
him  here  in  wax.  He  does  not  weigh  so  much 
as  he  used  to  weigh  by  at  least  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds;  he  has  lost  considerable  height  too; 
his  hair  has  turned  another  color  and  his  eyes 
also;  his  mustache  is  not  a  close  fit  any  more, 
either;  and  he  is  wearing  a  suit  of  English-made 
clothes. 

On  leaving  the  sadly  altered  form  of  our 
former  Chief  Executive  we  descended  a  flight 
of  stone  steps  leading  to  the  Chamber  of  Horrors. 
This  department  was  quite  crowded  with  parents 
escorting  their  children  about.  Like  America, 
England  appears  to  be  well  stocked  with  parents 
who  make  a  custom  of  taking  their  young  and 
susceptible  offspring  to  places  where  the  young 
ones  stand  a  good  chance  of  being  scared  into 
connipshun  fits.  The  official  guide  was  in  the 
Chamber  of  Horrors.  He  was  piloting  a  large 
group  of  visitors  about,  but  as  soon  as  he  saw 
our  smaller  party  he  left  them  and  came  directly 
to  us;  for  they  were  Scotch  and  we  were  Amer- 
icans, citizens  of  the  happy  land  where  tips 
come  from.  Undoubtedly  that  guide  knew  best. 
[346] 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


With  pride  and  pleasure  he  showed  us  a  rep- 
resentative assortment  of  England's  most  popu- 
lar and  prominent  murderers.  The  English 
dearly  love  a  murderer.  Perhaps  that  is  because 
they  have  fewer  murderers  than  we  have,  and 
have  less  luck  than  we  do  in  keeping  them  alive 
and  in  good  spirits  to  a  ripe  old  age.  Almo'st 
any  American  community  of  fair  size  can  afford 
at  least  two  murderers — one  in  jail,  under  sen- 
tence, receiving  gifts  of  flowers  and  angel  cake 
from  kind  ladies,  and  waiting  for  the  court  above 
to  reverse  the  verdict  in  his  case  because  the 
indictment  was  shy  a  comma;  and  the  other  out 
on  bail,  awaiting  his  time  for  going  through  the 
same  procedure.  But  with  the  English  it  is 
different. 

We  rarely  hang  anybody  who  is  anybody,  and 
only  occasionally  make  an  issue  of  stretching 
the  neck  of  the  veriest  nobody.  They  will  hang 
almost  anybody  Haman-high,  or  even  higher 
than  that.  They  do  not  exactly  hang  their 
murderer  before  they  catch  him,  but  the  two 
events  occur  in  such  close  succession  that  one 
can  readily  understand  why  a  confusion  should 
have  arisen  in  the  public  mind  on  these  points. 
First,  of  all,  though,  they  catch  him;  and  then 
some  morning  between  ten  and  twelve  they  try 
him.  This  is  a  brief  and  businesslike  formality. 
While  the  judge  is  looking  in  a  drawer  of  his  desk 
to  see  whether  the  black  cap  is  handy  the  bailiffs 
shoo  twelve  tradesmen  into  the  jury  box.  A 
tradesman  is  generally  chosen  for  jury  service 
[347] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


because  he  is  naturally  anxious  to  get  the  thing 
over  and  hurry  back  to  his  shop  before  his 
helper  goes  to  lunch.  The  judge  tells  the  jurors 
to  look  on  the  prisoner,  because  he  is  going  away 
shortly  and  is  not  expected  back;  so  they  take 
full  advantage  of  the  opportunity,  realizing  it 
to  be  their  last  chance.  Then,  in  order  to  com- 
ply with  the  forms,  the  judge  asks  the  accused 
whether  he  is  guilty  or  not  guilty,  and  the  jurors 
promptly  say  he  is.  His  Worship,  concurring 
heartily,  fixes  the  date  of  execution  for  the  first 
Friday  morning  when  the  hangman  has  no  other 
engagements.  It  is  never  necessary  to  postpone 
this  event  through  failure  of  the  condemned  to 
be  present.  He  is  always  there;  there  is  no 
record  of  his  having  disappointed  an  audience. 
So,  on  the  date  named,  rain  or  shine,  he  is 
hanged  very  thoroughly;  but  after  the  hanging 
is  over  they  write  songs  and  books  about  him 
and  revere  his  memory  forevermore. 

Our  guide  was  pleased  to  introduce  us  to  the 
late  Mr.  Charles  Pease,  as  done  in  paraffin,  with 
creped  hair  and  bright,  shiny  glass  eyes.  Mr. 
Pease  was  undoubtedly  England's  most  fashion- 
able murderer  of  the  past  century  and  his  name  is 
imperishably  enshrined  in  the  British  affections. 
The  guide  spoke  of  his  life  and  works  with  deep 
and  sincere  feeling.  He  also  appeared  to  derive 
unfeigned  pleasure  from  describing  the  accom- 
plishments of  another  murderer,  only  slightly 
less  famous  than  the  late  Mr.  Pease.  It  seemed 
that  this  murderer,  after  slaying  his  victim,  set 
[348] 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


to  dismembering  the  body  and  boiling  it.  They 
boil  nearly  everything  in  England.  But  the 
police  broke  in  on  him  and  interrupted  the 
job. 

Our  attention  was  directed  to  a  large  chart 
showing  the  form  of  the  victim,  the  boiled  por- 
tions being  outlined  in  red  and  the  unboiled 
portions  in  black.  Considered  as  a  murderer 
solely  this  particular  murderer  may  have  been 
deserving  of  his  fame;  but  when  it  came  to 
boiling,  that  was  another  matter.  He  showed 
poor  judgment  there.  It  all  goes  to  show  that 
a  man  should  stick  to  his  own  trade  and  not 
try  to  follow  two  or  more  widely  dissimilar 
callings  at  the  same  time.  Sooner  or  later  he 
is  bound  to  slip  up. 

We  found  Stratford-upon-Avon  to  be  the  one 
town  in  England  where  guides  are  really  abun- 
dant. There  are  as  many  guides  in  Stratford 
as  there  are  historic  spots.  I  started  to  say 
that  there  is  at  least  one  guide  in  Stratford  for 
every  American  who  goes  there;  but  that  would 
be  stretching  real  facts,  because  nearly  every 
American  who  goes  to  England  manages  to 
spend  at  least  a  day  in  Stratford,  it  being  a 
spot  very  dear  to  his  heart.  The  very  name  of 
it  is  associated  with  two  of  the  most  conspicuous 
figures  in  our  literature.  I  refer  first  to  Andrew 
Carnegie;  second  to  William  Shakspere.  Shak- 
spere,  who  wrote  the  books,  was  born  here;  but 
Carnegie,  who  built  the  libraries  in  which  to 
keep  the  books,  and  who  has  done  some  writing 
[3491 


EUROPE    REVISED 


himself,  provided  money  for  preserving  and  per- 
petuating the  relics. 

We  met  a  guide  in  the  ancient  schoolhouse 
where  the  Bard — I  am  speaking  now  of  William, 
not  of  Andrew — acquired  the  rudiments  of  his 
education;  and  on  duty  at  the  old  village  church 
was  another  guide,  who  for  a  price  showed  us 
the  identical  gravestone  bearing  the  identical 
inscription  which,  reproduced  in  a  design  of 
burnt  wood,  is  to-day  to  be  found  on  the  walls 
of  every  American  household,  however  humble, 
whose  members  are  wishful  of  imparting  an 
artistic  and  literary  atmosphere  to  their  home. 
A  third  guide  greeted  us  warmly  when  we  drove 
to  the  cottage,  a  mile  or  two  from  the  town, 
where  the  Hathaway  family  lived.  Here  we  saw 
the  high-backed  settle  on  which  Shakspere  sat, 
night  after  night,  wooing  Anne  Hathaway.  I 
myself  sat  on  it  to  test  it.  I  should  say  that  the 
wooing  could  not  have  been  particularly  good 
there,  especially  for  a  thin  man.  That  settle 
had  a  very  hard  seat  and  history  does  not  record 
that  there  was  a  cushion.  Shakspere's  affec- 
tions for  the  lady  must  indeed  have  been  stead- 
fast. Or  perhaps  he  was  of  stouter  build  than 
his  pictures  show  him  to  have  been. 

Guides  were  scattered  all  over  the  birthplace 
house  in  Stratford  in  the  ratio  of  one  or  more 
to  each  room.  Downstairs  a  woman  guide  pre- 
sided over  a  battery  of  glass  cases  containing 
personal  belongings  of  Shakspere's  and  docu- 
ments written  by  him  and  signed  by  him.  It  is 
[3501 


FEEDING  HOUR  IN  THE  PARROT  CAGE  AT  THE  ZOO  NEVER  PRODUCED 
ANYTHING  LIKE  SO  NOISY  AND  ANIMATED  A  SCENE 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


conceded  that  he  could  write,  but  he  certainly 
was  a  mighty  poor  speller.  This  has  been  a 
failing  of  many  well-known  writers.  Chaucer 
was  deficient  in  this  regard;  and  if  it  were  not 
for  a  feeling  of  personal  modesty  I  could  apply 
the  illustration  nearer  home. 

Two  guides  accompanied  us  as  we  climbed 
the  stairs  to  the  low-roofed  room  on  the  second 
floor  where  the  creator  of  Shylock  and  Juliet  was 
born— or  was  not  born,  if  you  believe  what 
Ignatius  Donnelly  had  to  say  on  the  subject. 
But  would  it  not  be  interesting  and  valued  in- 
formation if  we  could  only  get  the  evidence  on 
this  point  of  old  Mrs.  Shakspere,  who  undoubt- 
edly was  present  on  the  occasion?  A  member 
of  our  party,  an  American,  ventured  to  remark 
as  much  to  one  of  the  guides;  but  the  latter  did 
not  seem  to  understand  him.  So  the  American 
told  him  just  to  keep  thinking  it  over  at  odd 
moments,  and  that  he  would  be  back  again  in 
a  couple  of  years,  if  nothing  happened,  and 
possibly  by  that  time  the  guide  would  have 
caught  the  drift  of  his  observation.  On  second 
thought,  later  on,  he  decided  to  make  it  three 
years — he  did  not  want  to  crowd  the  guide,  he 
said,  or  put  too  great  a  burden  on  his  mentality 
in  a  limited  space  of  time. 

If  England  harbors  few  guides  the  Continent 
is  fairly  glutted  with  them.  After  nightfall  the 
boulevards  of  Paris  are  so  choked  with  them 
that  in  places  there  is  standing  room  only.  In 
Rome  the  congestion  is  even  greater.  In  Rome 
[353] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


every  other  person  is  a  guide — and  sometimes 
twins.  I  do  not  know  why,  in  thinking  of 
Europe,  I  invariably  associate  the  subject  of 
guides  with  the  subject  of  tips.  The  guides 
were  no  greedier  for  tips  than  the  cabmen  or 
the  hotel  helpers,  or  the  railroad  hands,  or  the 
populace  at  large.  Nevertheless  this  is  true.  In 
my  mind  I  am  sure  guides  and  tips  will  always 
be  coupled,  as  surely  as  any  of  those  standard 
team-word  combinations  of  our  language  that 
are  familiar  to  all;  as  firmly  paired  off  as,  for 
example,  Castor  and  Pollux,  or  Damon  and 
Pythias,  or  Fair  and  Warmer,  or  Hay  and  Feed. 
When  I  think  of  one  I  know  I  shall  think  of 
the  other.  Also  I  shall  think  of  languages;  but 
for  that  there  is  a  reason. 

Tipping — the  giving  of  tips  and  the  occasional 
avoidance  of  giving  them — takes  up  a  good  deal 
of  the  tourist's  time  in  Europe.  At  first  reading 
the  arrangement  devised  by  the  guidebooks,  of 
setting  aside  ten  per  cent  of  one's  bill  for  tipping 
purposes,  seems  a  better  plan  and  a  less  costly 
one  than  the  indiscriminate  American  system  of 
tipping  for  each  small  service  at  the  time  of  its 
performance.  The  trouble  is  that  this  arrange- 
ment does  not  work  out  so  well  in  actual  practice 
as  it  sounds  in  theory.  On  the  day  of  your  de- 
parture you  send  for  your  hotel  bill.  You  do 
not  go  to  the  desk  and  settle  up  there  after  the 
American  fashion.  If  you  have  learned  the 
ropes  you  order  your  room  waiter  to  fetch  your 
bill  to  you,  and  in  the  privacy  of  your  apart- 
[354] 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


ment  you  pore  over  the  formidable  document 
wherein  every  small  charge  is  fully  specified,  the 
whole  concluding  with  an  impressive  array  of 
items  regarding  which  you  have  no  prior  recol- 
lection whatsoever.  Considering  the  total,  you 
put  aside  an  additional  ten  per  cent,  calculated 
for  division  on  the  basis  of  so  much  for  the 
waiter,  so  much  for  the  boots,  so  much  for  the 
maid  and  the  porter,  and  the  cashier,  and  the 
rest  of  them.  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  send 
for  these  persons  in  order  to  confer  your  farewell 
remembrances  on  them;  they  will  be  waiting 
for  you  in  the  hallways.  No  matter  how  early 
or  late  the  hour  of  your  leaving  may  be,  you 
find  them  there  in  a  long  and  serried  rank. 

You  distribute  bills  and  coins  until  your  ten 
per  cent  is  exhausted,  and  then  you  are  pained 
to  note  that  several  servitors  yet  remain,  lined 
up  and  all  expectant,  owners  of  strange  faces 
that  you  do  not  recall  ever  having  seen  before, 
but  who  are  now  at  hand  with  claims,  real  or 
imaginary,  on  your  purse.  Inasmuch  as  you 
have  a  deadly  fear  of  being  remembered  after- 
ward in  this  hotel  as  a  piker,  you  continue  to 
dip  down  and  to  fork  over,  and  so  by  the  time 
you  reach  the  tail  end  of  the  procession  your 
ten  per  cent  has  grown  to  twelve  or  fifteen  per 
cent,  or  even  more. 

As  regards  the  tipping  of  guides  for  their 

services,   I   hit   on   a  fairly   satisfactory  plan, 

which  I  gladly  reveal  here  for  the  benefit  of 

my  fellow  man.     I  think  it  is  a  good  idea  to 

[355] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


give  the  guide,  on  parting,  about  twice  as  much 
as  you  think  he  is  entitled  to,  which  will  be 
about  half  as  much  as  he  expects.  From  this 
starting  point  you  then  work  toward  each 
other,  you  conceding  a  little  from  time  to  time, 
he  abating  a  trifle  here  and  there,  until  you 
have  reached  a  happy  compromise  on  a  basis  of 
fifty-fifty;  and  so  you  part  in  mutual  good  will. 

The  average  American,  on  the  eve  of  going 
to  Europe,  thinks  of  the  European  as  speaking 
each  his  own  language.  He  conceives  of  the 
Poles  speaking  Polar;  of  the  Hollanders  talking 
Hollandaise;  of  the  Swiss  as  employing  Schweit- 
zer for  ordinary  conversations  and  yodeling 
when  addressing  friends  at  a  distance;  and  so  on. 
Such,  however,  is  rarely  the  case.  Nearly  every 
person  with  whom  one  comes  in  contact  in 
Europe  appears  to  have  fluent  command  of 
several  tongues  besides  his  or  her  own.  It  is 
true  this  does  not  apply  to  Italy,  where  the 
natives  mainly  stick  to  Italian ;  but  then,  Italian 
is  not  a  language.  It  is  a  calisthenic. 

Between  Rome  and  Florence,  our  train  stopped 
at  a  small  way  station  in  the  mountains.  As 
soon  as  the  little  locomotive  had  panted  itself 
to  a  standstill  the  train  hands,  following  their 
habit,  piled  off  the  cars  and  engaged  in  a  tre- 
mendous confab  with  the  assembled  officials  on 
the  platform.  Immediately  all  the  loafers  in 
sight  drew  cards.  A  drowsy  hillsman,  muffled 
to  his  back  hair  in  a  long  brown  cloak,  and  with 
buskins  on  his  legs  such  as  a  stage  bandit  wears, 
[3561 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


was  dozing  against  the  wall .  He  looked  as  though 
he  had  stepped  right  out  of  a  comic  opera  to 
add  picturesqueness  to  the  scene.  He  roused 
himself  and  joined  in;  so  did  a  bearded  party 
who,  to  judge  by  his  uniform,  was  either  a 
Knight  of  Pythias  or  a  general  in  the  army;  so 
did  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  In  ten  seconds  they 
were  jammed  together  in  a  hard  knot,  and  going 
it  on  the  high  speed  with  the  muffler  off,  fine 
white  teeth  shining,  arms  flying,  shoulders 
shrugging,  spinal  columns  writhing,  mustaches 
rising  and  falling,  legs  wriggling,  scalps  and  ears 
following  suit.  Feeding  hour  in  the  parrot  cage 
at  the  zoo  never  produced  anything  like  so  noisy 
and  animated  a  scene.  In  these  parts  acute 
hysteria  is  not  a  symptom;  it  is  merely  a  state 
of  mind. 

A  waiter  in  soiled  habiliments  hurried  up, 
abandoning  chances  of  trade  at  the  prospect  of 
something  infinitely  more  exciting.  He  wanted 
to  stick  his  oar  into  the  argument.  He  had  a  few 
pregnant  thoughts  of  his  own  craving  utterance, 
you  could  tell  that.  But  he  was  handicapped 
into  a  state  of  dumbness  by  the  fact  that  he 
needed  both  arms  to  balance  a  tray  of  wine  and 
sandwiches  on  his  head.  Merely  using  his  voice 
in  that  company  would  not  have  counted.  He 
stood  it  as  long  as  he  could,  which  was  not  very 
long,  let  me  tell  you.  Then  he  slammed  his  tray 
down  on  the  platform  and,  with  one  quick  move- 
ment, jerked  his  coat  sleeves  back  to  his  elbows, 
and  inside  thirty  seconds  he  had  the  floor  in 
[357] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


both  hands,  as  it  were.  He  conversed  mainly 
with  the  Australian  crawl  stroke,  but  once  in  a 
while  switched  to  the  Spencerian  free-arm  move- 
ment and  occasionally  introduced  the  Chautau- 
qua  salute  with  telling  effect. 

On  the  Continent  guides,  as  a  class,  excel  in 
the  gift  of  tongues — guides  and  hotel  concierges. 
The  concierge  at  our  hotel  in  Berlin  was  a  big, 
upstanding  chap,  half  Russian  and  half  Swiss, 
and  therefore  qualified  by  his  breeding  to  speak 
many  languages;  for  the  Russians  are  born  with 
split  tongues  and  can  give  cards  and  spades  to 
any  talking  crow  that  ever  lived;  while  the  Swiss 
lag  but  little  behin  1  them  in  linguistic  aptitude. 
It  seemed  such  a  pity  that  this  man  was  not 
alive  when  the  hands  knocked  off  work  on  the 
Tower  of  Babel;  he  could  have  put  the  job 
through  without  extending  himself.  No  matter 
what  the  nationality  of  a  guest  might  be — and 
the  guests  were  of  many  nationalities — he  could 
talk  with  that  guest  in  his  own  language  or  in 
any  other  language  the  guest  might  fancy.  I 
myself  was  sorely  tempted  to  try  him  on 
Coptic  and  early  Aztec;  but  I  held  off.  My 
Coptic  is  not  what  it  once  was;  and,  partly 
through  disuse  and  partly  through  carelessness, 
I  have  allowed  my  command  of  early  Aztec  to 
fall  off  pretty  badly  these  last  few  months. 

All  linguistic  freakishness  is  not  confined  to 

the  Continent.    The  English,  who  are  popularly 

supposed  to  use  the  same  language  we  ourselves 

use,  sometimes  speak  with  a  mighty  strange 

[3581 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


tongue.  A  great  many  of  them  do  not  speak 
English;  they  speak  British,  a  very  different 
thing.  An  Englishwoman  of  breeding  has  a 
wonderful  speaking  voice;  as  pure  as  a  Boston 
woman's  and  more  liquid;  as  soft  as  a  Southern 
woman's  and  with  more  attention  paid  to  the  r's. 
But  the  Cockney  type — Wowie!  During  a  car- 
riage ride  in  Florence  with  a  mixed  company  of 
tourists  I  chanced  to  say  something  of  a  com- 
plimentary nature  about  something  English,  and 
a  little  London-bred  woman  spoke  up  and  said: 
"Thenks!  It's  vurry  naice  of  you  to  sezzo,  'm 
sure."  Some  of  them  talk  like  that — honestly 
they  do! 

Though  Americo-English  may  not  be  an  es- 
pecially musical  speech,  it  certainly  does  lend 
itself  most  admirably  to  slang  purposes.  Here 
again  the  Britishers  show  their  inability  to 
utilize  the  vehicle  to  the  full  of  its  possibilities. 
England  never  produced  a  Billy  Baxter  or  a 
George  Ade,  and  I  am  afraid  she  never  will. 
Most  of  our  slang  means  something;  you  hear  a 
new  slang  phrase  and  instantly  you  realize  that 
the  genius  who  coined  it  has  hit  on  a  happy  and 
a  graphic  and  an  illuminating  expression;  that  at 
one  bound  he  rose  triumphant  above  the  limita- 
tions of  the  language  and  tremendously  enriched 
the  working  vocabulary  of  the  man  in  the 
street.  Whereas  an  Englishman's  idea  of  sling- 
ing slang  is  to  scoop  up  at  random  some  inoffen- 
sive and  well-meaning  word  that  never  did  him 
any  harm  and  apply  it  in  the  place  of  some  other 
[3591 


EUROPE    REVISED 


word,  to  which  the  first  word  is  not  related,  even 
by  marriage.  And  look  how  they  deliberately 
mispronounce  proper  names.  Everybody  knows 
about  Cholmondeley  and  St.  John.  But  take 
the  Scandinavian  word  fjord.  Why,  I  ask  you, 
should  the  English  insist  on  pronouncing  it 
Ferguson? 

At  Oxford,  the  seat  of  learning,  Magdalen  is 
pronounced  Maudlin,  probably  in  subtle  tribute 
to  the  condition  of  the  person  who  first  pro- 
nounced it  so.  General-admission  day  is  not 
the  day  you  enter,  but  the  day  you  leave.  Full 
term  means  three-quarters  of  a  term.  An  ordi- 
nary degree  is  a  degree  obtained  by  a  special 
examination.  An  inspector  of  arts  does  not 
mean  an  inspector  of  arts,  but  a  student;  and 
from  this  point  they  go  right  ahead,  getting 
worse  all  the  time.  The  droll  creature  who 
compiled  the  Oxford  glossary  was  a  true  English- 
man. 

When  an  Englishman  undertakes  to  wrestle 
with  American  slang  he  makes  a  fearful  hash 
of  it.  In  an  English  magazine  I  read  a  short 
story,  written  by  an  Englishman  who  is  regarded 
by  a  good  many  persons,  competent  to  judge, 
as  being  the  cleverest  writer  of  English  alive  to- 
day. The  story  was  beautifully  done  from  the 
standpoint  of  composition;  it  bristled  with 
flashing  metaphors  and  whimsical  phrasing.  The 
scene  of  the  yarn  was  supposed  to  be  Chicago 
and  naturally  the  principal  figure  in  it  was  a 
millionaire.  In  one  place  the  author  has  this 
[360] 


GUYED    OR    GUIDED? 


person  saying,  "I  reckon  you'll  feel  pretty 
mean,"  and  in  another  place,  "I  reckon  I'm 
not  a  man  with  no  pull." 

Another  character  in  the  story  says,  "I  know 
you  don't  cotton  to  the  march  of  science  in 
these  matters,"  and  speaks  of  something  that 
is  unusual  as  being  "a  rum  affair."  A  walled 
state  prison,  presumably  in  Illinois,  is  referred 
to  as  a  "convict  camp";  and  its  warden  is  called 
a  "governor"  and  an  assistant  keeper  is  called 
a  "warder";  while  a  Chicago  daily  paper  is 
quoted  as  saying  that  "larrikins"  directed  the 
attention  of  a  policeman  to  a  person  who  was 
doing  thus  and  so. 

The  writer  describes  a  "mysterious  mere" 
known  as  Pilgrim's  Pond,  "in  which  they  say" 
— a  prison  official  is  supposed  to  be  talking  now 
—"our  fathers  made  witches  walk  until  they 
sank."  Descendants  of  the  original  Puritans 
who  went  from  Plymouth  Rock,  in  the  summer 
of  1621,  and  founded  Chicago,  will  recall  this 
pond  distinctly.  Cotton  Mather  is  buried  on 
its  far  bank,  and  from  there  it  is  just  ten  min- 
utes by  trolley  to  Salem,  Massachusetts.  It  is 
stated  also  in  this  story  that  the  prairies  begin  a 
matter  of  thirty-odd  miles  from  Chicago,  and 
that  to  reach  them  one  must  first  traverse  a 
"perfect  no  man's  land."  Englewood  and  South 
Chicago  papers  please  copy. 


[361] 


CHAPTER  XIX 
VENICE  AND  THE  VENISONS 


GETTING   back  again  to  guides,  I  am 
reminded    that    our    acquaintanceship 
with  the  second  member  of  the  Mark 
Twain    brotherhood    was    staged    in 
Paris.     This  gentleman  wished  himself  on  us 
one  afternoon  at  the  Hotel  des  Invalides.    We 
did  not  engage  him;  he  engaged  us,  doing  the 
trick  with  such  finesse  and  skill  that  before  we 
realized  it  we  had  been  retained  to  accompany 
him  to  various  points  of  interest  in  and  round 
Paris.     However,  we  remained  under  his  control 
one  day  only.    At  nightfall  we  wrested  ourselves 
free  and  fled  under  cover  of  darkness  to  German 
soil,  where  we  were  comparatively  safe. 

I  never  knew  a  man  who  advanced  so  rapidly 
in  a  military  way  as  he  did  during  the  course  of 
that  one  day.  Our  own  national  guard  could 
not  hold  a  candle  to  him.  He  started  out  at 
ten  A.  M.  by  being  an  officer  of  volunteers  in  the 
Franco-Prussian  War;  but  every  time  he  slipped 
away  and  took  a  nip  out  of  his  private  bottle, 
[3621 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

which  was  often,  he  advanced  in  rank  auto- 
matically. Before  the  dusk  of  evening  came  he 
was  a  corps  commander,  who  had  been  ennobled 
on  the  field  of  battle  by  the  hand  of  Napoleon 
the  Third. 

He  took  us  to  Versailles.  We  did  not  partic- 
ularly care  to  go  to  Versailles  that  day,  because 
it  was  raining;  but  he  insisted  and  we  went. 
In  spite  of  the  drizzle  we  might  have  enjoyed 
that  wonderful  place  had  he  not  been  constantly 
at  our  elbows,  gabbling  away  steadily  except 
when  he  excused  himself  for  a  moment  and 
stepped  behind  a  tree,  to  emerge  a  moment  later 
wiping  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve.  Then  he  would 
return  to  us,  with  an  added  gimpiness  in  his 
elderly  legs,  an  increased  expansion  of  the  chest 
inside  his  tight  and  shiny  frock  coat,  and  a  fresh 
freight  of  richness  on  his  breath,  to  report  an- 
other deserved  promotion. 

After  he  had  eaten  luncheon — all  except  such 
portions  of  it  as  he  spilled  on  himself — the  colo- 
nel grew  confidential  and  chummy.  He  tried 
to  tell  me  an  off-color  story  and  forgot  the  point 
of  it,  if  indeed  it  had  any  point.  He  began 
humming  the  Marseillaise  hymn,  but  broke  off 
to  say  he  expected  to  live  to  see  the  day  when 
a  column  of  French  troops,  singing  that  air, 
would  march  up  Unter  den  Linden  to  stack 
their  arms  in  the  halls  of  the  Kaiser's  palace. 
I  did  not  take  issue  with  him.  Every  man  is 
entitled  to  his  own  wishes  in  those  matters. 
But  later  on,  when  I  had  seen  something  of  the 
[363] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Kaiser's  standing  army,  I  thought  to  myself 
that  when  the  French  troops  did  march  up  Unter 
den  Linden  they  would  find  it  tolerably  rough 
sledding,  and  if  there  was  any  singing  done  a 
good  many  of  them  probably  would  not  be  able 
to  join  in  the  last  verse. 

Immediately  following  this,  our  conductor 
confided  to  me  that  he  had  once  had  the  honor 
of  serving  Mr.  Clemens,  whom  he  referred  to  as 
Mick  Twine.  He  told  me  things  about  Mr. 
Clemens  of  which  I  had  never  heard.  I  do  not 
think  Mr.  Clemens  ever  heard  of  them  either. 
Then  the  brigadier — it  was  now  after  three 
o'clock,  and  between  three  and  three-thirty  he 
was  a  brigadier — drew  my  arm  within  his. 

"I,  too,  am  an  author,"  he  stated.  "It  is  not 
generally  known,  but  I  have  written  much.  I 
wrote  a  book  of  which  you  may  have  heard — 
'  The  Wandering  Jew.' "  And  he  tapped  himself 
on  the  bosom  proudly. 

I  said  I  had  somehow  contracted  a  notion 
that  a  party  named  Sue — Eugene  Sue — had 
something  to  do  with  writing  the  work  of  that 
name. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  right  there,  my  friend,"  he 
said.  "  Sue  wrote  '  The  Wandering  Jew '  the  first 
time — as  a  novel,  merely;  but  I  wrote  him  much 
better — as  a  satire  on  the  anti-Semitic  move- 
ment." 

I  surrendered  without  offering  to  strike  an- 
other blow  and  from  that  time  on  he  had  his 
own  way  with  us.  The  day,  as  I  was  pleased  to 
[364] 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

note  at  the  time,  had  begun  mercifully  to  draw 
to  a  close;  we  were  driving  back  to  Paris,  and 
he,  sitting  on  the  front  seat,  had  just  attained 
the  highest  post  in  the  army  under  the  regime 
of  the  last  Empire,  when  he  said: 

"Behold,  m'sieur!  We  are  now  approaching 
a  wine  shop  on  the  left.  You  were  most  gracious 
and  kind  in  the  matter  of  luncheon.  Kindly 
permit  me  to  do  the  honors  now.  It  is  a  very 
good  wine  shop — I  know  it  well.  Shall  we  stop 
for  a  glass  together,  eh?" 

It  was  the  first  time  since  we  landed  at  Calais 
that  a  native-born  person  had  offered  to  buy 
anything,  and,  being  ever  desirous  to  assist  in 
the  celebration  of  any  truly  notable  occasion, 
I  accepted  and  the  car  was  stopped.  We  were 
at  the  portal  of  the  wine  shop,  when  he  plucked 
at  my  sleeve,  offering  another  suggestion: 

"The  chauffeur  now — he  is  a  worthy  fellow, 
that  chauffeur.  Shall  we  not  invite  the  chauffeur 
to  join  us?" 

I  was  agreeable  to  that,  too.  So  he  called  the 
chauffeur  and  the  chauffeur  disentangled  his 
whiskers  from  the  steering  gear  and  came  and 
joined  us.  The  chauffeur  and  I  each  had  a 
small  glass  of  light  wine,  but  the  general  took 
brandy.  Then  ensued  a  spirited  dialogue  be- 
tween him  and  the  woman  who  kept  the  shop. 
Assuming  that  I  had  no  interest  in  the  matter,  I 
studied  the  pictures  behind  the  bar.  Presently, 
having  reduced  the  woman  to  a  state  of  com- 
parative silence,  he  approached  me. 
[365] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


"M'sieur,"  he  said,  "I  regret  that  this  has 
happened.  Because  you  are  a  foreigner  and  be- 
cause you  know  not  our  language,  that  woman 
would  make  an  overcharge;  but  she  forgot  she 
had  me  to  deal  with.  I  am  on  guard!  See  her! 
She  is  now  quelled!  I  have  given  her  a  lesson 
she  will  not  soon  forget.  M'sieur,  the  correct 
amount  of  the  bill  is  two-francs-ten.  Give  it  to 
her  and  let  us  begone!" 

I  still  have  that  guide's  name  and  address  in 
my  possession.  At  parting  he  pressed  his  card 
on  me  and  asked  me  to  keep  it;  and  I  did  keep 
it.  I  shall  be  glad  to  loan  it  to  any  American 
who  may  be  thinking  of  going  to  Paris.  With 
the  card  in  his  pocket,  he  will  know  exactly 
where  this  guide  lives;  and  then,  when  he  is  in 
need  of  a  guide  he  can  carefully  go  elsewhere 
and  hire  a  guide. 

I  almost  failed  to  mention  that  before  we 
parted  he  tried  to  induce  us  to  buy  something. 
He  took  us  miles  out  of  our  way  to  a  pottery 
and  urged  us  to  invest  in  its  wares.  This  is  the 
main  purpose  of  every  guide:  to  see  that  you 
buy  something  and  afterward  to  collect  his 
commission  from  the  shopkeeper  for  having 
brought  you  to  the  shop.  If  you  engage  your 
guide  through  the  porter  at  your  hotel  you  will 
find  that  he  steers  you  to  the  shops  the  hotel 
people  have  already  recommended  to  you;  but 
if  you  break  the  porter's  heart  by  hiring  your 
guide  outside,  independently,  the  guide  steers 
you  to  the  shops  that  are  on  his  own  private  list. 
[366] 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

Only  once  I  saw  a  guide  temporarily  stumped, 
and  that  was  in  Venice.  The  skies  were  leaky 
that  day  and  the  weather  was  raw;  and  one  of 
the  ladies  of  the  party  wore  pumps  and  silk 
stockings.  For  the  protection  of  her  ankles  she 
decided  to  buy  a  pair  of  cloth  gaiters;  and, 
stating  her  intention,  she  started  to  go  into  a 
shop  that  dealt  in  those  articles.  The  guide 
hesitated  a  moment  only,  then  threw  himself 
in  her  path.  The  shops  hereabout  were  not 
to  be  trusted — the  proprietors,  without  excep- 
tion, were  rogues  and  extortioners.  If  madame 
would  have  patience  for  a  few  brief  moments 
he  would  guarantee  that  she  got  what  she 
wanted  at  an  honest  price.  He  seemed  so 
desirous  of  protecting  her  that  she  consented 
to  wait. 

In  a  minute,  on  a  pretext,  he  excused  himself 
and  dived  into  one  of  the  crooked  ways  that 
thread  through  all  parts  of  Venice  and  make  it 
possible  for  one  who  knows  their  windings  to 
reach  any  part  of  the  city  without  using  the 
canals.  Two  of  us  secretly  followed  him.  Be- 
yond the  first  turning  he  dived  into  a  shoe  shop. 
Emerging  after  a  while  he  hurried  back  and  led 
the  lady  to  that  same  shop,  and  stood  by,  smil- 
ing softly,  while  she  was  fitted  with  gaiters. 
Until  now  evidently  gaiters  had  not  been  on 
his  list,  but  he  had  taken  steps  to  remedy  this; 
and,  though  his  commission  on  a  pair  of  sixty- 
cent  gaiters  could  not  have  been  very  large  yet, 
as  some  philosopher  has  so  truly  said,  every  lit- 
[367] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


tie  bit  added  to  what  you  have  makes  just 
a  modicum  more. 

Indeed,  the  guide  never  overlooks  the  smallest 
bet.  His  whole  mentality  is  focused  on  getting 
you  inside  a  shop.  Once  you  are  there,  he 
stations  himself  close  behind  you,  reenforcing 
the  combined  importunities  of  the  shopkeeper 
and  his  assembled  staff  with  gentle  suggestions. 
The  depths  of  self-abasement  to  which  a  shop- 
keeper in  Europe  will  descend  in  an  effort  to 
sell  his  goods  surpasses  the  power  of  description. 
The  London  tradesman  goes  pretty  far  in  this 
direction.  Often  he  goes  as  far  as  the  sidewalk, 
clinging  to  the  hem  of  your  garment  and  begging 
you  to  return  for  one  more  look.  But  the  Con- 
tinentals are  still  worse. 

A  Parisian  shopkeeper  would  sell  you  the 
bones  of  his  revered  grandmother  if  you  wanted 
them  and  he  had  them  in  stock;  and  he  would 
have  them  in  stock  too,  because,  as  I  have  stated 
once  before,  a  true  Parisian  never  throws  away 
anything  he  can  save.  I  heard  of  just  one  single 
instance  where  a  customer  desirous  of  having  an 
article  and  willing  to  pay  the  price  failed  to  get 
it;  and  that,  I  would  say,  stands  without  a 
parallel  in  the  annals  of  commerce  and  barter. 

An  American  lady  visiting  her  daughter,  an 
art  student  in  the  Latin  Quartier,  was  walking 
alone  when  she  saw  in  a  shop  window  a  lace 
blouse  she  fancied.  She  went  inside  and  by 
signs,  since  she  knew  no  French,  indicated  that 
she  wished  to  look  at  that  blouse.  The  woman 
[3681 


iff* 


IN  VENICE  EVEN  THE  SIMPLE  GONDOLIER  HAS  A  SECRET  UNDERSTANDING 
WITH  ALL  BRANCHES  OF  THE  RETAIL  TRADE 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

in  charge  shook  her  head,  declining  even  to  take 
the  garment  out  of  the  window.  Convinced 
now,  womanlike,  that  this  particular  blouse  was 
the  blouse  she  desired  above  all  other  blouses 
the  American  woman  opened  her  purse  and  in- 
dicated that  she  was  prepared  to  buy  at  the 
shopwoman's  own  valuation,  without  the  privi- 
lege of  examination.  The  shopwoman  showed 
deep  pain  at  having  to  refuse  the  proposition, 
but  refuse  it  she  did;  and  the  would-be  buyer 
went  home  angry  and  perplexed  and  told  her 
daughter  what  had  happened. 

"It  certainly  is  strange,"  the  daughter  said. 
"I  thought  everything  in  Paris,  except  possibly 
Napoleon's  tomb,  was  for  sale.  This  thing  will 
repay  investigation.  Wait  until  I  pin  my  hat 
on.  Does  my  nose  need  powdering?" 

Her  mother  led  her  back  to  the  shop  of  the 
blouse  and  then  the  puzzle  was  revealed.  For 
it  was  the  shop  of  a  dry  cleanser  and  the  blouse 
belonged  to  some  patron  and  was  being  displayed 
as  a  sample  of  the  work  done  inside;  but  un- 
doubtedly such  a  thing  never  before  happened 
in  Paris  and  probably  never  will  happen  again. 

In  Venice  not  only  the  guides  and  the  hotel 
clerks  and  porters  but  even  the  simple  gondolier 
has  a  secret  understanding  with  all  branches  of 
the  retail  trade.  You  get  into  a  long,  snaky, 
black  gondola  and  fee  the  beggar  who  pushes 
you  off,  and  all  the  other  beggars  who  have 
assisted  in  the  pushing  off  or  have  merely  con- 
tributed to  the  success  of  the  operation  by  being 
[3711 


EUROPE    REVISED 


present,  and  you  tell  your  gondolier  in  your 
best  Italian  or  your  worst  pidgin  English  where 
you  wish  to  go.  It  may  be  you  are  bound  for 
the  Rialto;  or  for  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  which  is 
chiefly  distinguished  from  all  the  other  bridges 
by  being  the  only  covered  one  in  the  lot;  or  for 
the  house  of  the  lady  Desdemona.  The  lady 
Desdemona  never  lived  there  or  anywhere  else, 
but  the  house  where  she  would  have  lived,  had 
she  lived,  is  on  exhibition  daily  from  nine  to 
five,  admission  one  lira.  Or  perchance  you  want 
to  visit  one  of  the  ducal  palaces  that  are  so 
numerous  in  Venice.  These  palaces  are  still 
tenanted  by  the  descendants  of  the  original 
proprietors;  one  family  has  perhaps  been  living 
in  one  palace  three  or  four  hundred  years.  But 
now  the  family  inhabits  the  top  floor,  doing 
light  housekeeping  up  there,  and  the  lower  floor, 
where  the  art  treasures,  the  tapestries  and  the 
family  relics  are,  is  in  charge  of  a  caretaker,  who 
collects  at  the  door  and  then  leads  you  through. 
Having  given  the  boatman  explicit  directions 
you  settle  back  in  your  cushion  seat  to  enjoy 
the  trip.  You  marvel  how  he,  standing  at  the 
stern,  with  his  single  oar  fitted  into  a  shallow 
notch  of  his  steering  post,  propels  the  craft 
so  swiftly  and  guides  it  so  surely  by  those  short, 
twisting  strokes  of  his.  Really,  you  reflect,  it 
is  rowing  by  shorthand.  You  are  feasting  your 
eyes  on  the  wonderful  color  effects  and  the 
groupings  that  so  enthuse  the  artist,  and  which 
he  generally  manages  to  botch  and  boggle  when 
[372] 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

he  seeks  to  commit  them  to  canvas;  and  be- 
tweenwhiles  you  are  wondering  why  all  the  de- 
spondent cats  in  Venice  should  have  picked  out 
the  Grand  Canal  as  the  most  suitable  place  in 
which  to  commit  suicide,  when — bump! — your 
gondola  swings  up  against  the  landing  piles  in 
front  of  a  glass  factory  and  the  entire  force  of 
helpers  rush  out  and  seize  you  by  your  arms — 
or  by  your  legs,  if  handier — and  try  to  drag  you 
inside,  while  the  affable  and  accommodating 
gondolier  boosts  you  from  behind.  You  fight 
them  off,  declaring  passionately  that  you  are 
not  in  the  market  for  colored  glass  at  this  time. 
The  hired  hands  protest;  and  the  gondolier, 
cheated  out  of  his  commission,  sorrows  greatly, 
but  obeys  your  command  to  move  on.  At  least 
he  pretends  to  obey  it;  but  a  minute  later  he 
brings  you  up  broadside  at  the  water-level 
doors  of  a  shop  dealing  in  antiques,  known 
appropriately  as  antichitas,  or  at  a  mosaic  shop 
or  a  curio  shop.  If  ever  you  do  succeed  in 
reaching  your  destination  it  is  by  the  exercise 
of  much  profanity  and  great  firmness  of  will. 

The  most  insistent  and  pesky  shopkeepers  of 
all  are  those  who  hive  in  the  ground  floors  of  the 
professedly  converted  palaces  that  face  on  three 
sides  of  the  Square  of  Saint  Mark's.  You  dare 
not  hesitate  for  the  smallest  fractional  part  of 
a  second  in  front  of  a  shop  here.  Lurking  inside 
the  open  door  is  a  husky  puller-in ;  and  he  dashes 
out  and  grabs  hold  of  you  and  will  not  let  go, 
begging  you  in  spaghettified  English  to  come  in 
[373] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


and  examine  his  unapproachable  assortment  of 
bargains.  You  are  not  compelled  to  buy,  he 
tells  you;  he  only  wants  you  to  gaze  on  his 
beautiful  things.  Believe  him  not!  Venture 
inside  and  decline  to  purchase  and  he  will  think 
up  new  and  subtle  Italian  forms  of  insult  and 
insolence  to  visit  on  you.  They  will  have  brass 
bands  out  for  you  if  you  invest  and  brass 
knuckles  if  you  do  not. 

There  is  but  one  way  to  escape  from  their 
everlasting  persecutions,  and  that  is  to  flee  to 
the  center  of  the  square  and  enjoy  the  company 
of  the  pigeons  and  the  photographers.  They — 
the  pigeons,  I  mean — belong  to  the  oldest  family 
in  Venice;  their  lineage  is  of  the  purest  and  most 
undefiled.  For  upward  of  seven  hundred  years 
the  authorities  of  the  city  have  been  feeding 
and  protecting  the  pigeons,  of  which  these 
countless  blue-and-bronze  flocks  are  the  direct 
descendants.  They  are  true  aristocrats;  and, 
like  true  aristocrats,  they  are  content  to  live 
on  the  public  funds  and  grow  fat  and  sassy 
thereon,  paying  nothing  in  return. 

No;  I  take  that  part  back — they  do  pay 
something  in  return;  a  full  measure.  They  pay 
by  the  beauty  of  their  presence,  and  they  are 
surely  very  beautiful,  with  their  dainty  mincing 
pink  feet  and  the  sheen  on  the  proudly  arched 
breast  coverts  of  the  cock  birds;  and  they  pay 
by  giving  you  their  trust  and  their  friendship. 
To  gobble  the  gifts  of  dried  peas,  which  you 
buy  in  little  cornucopias  from  convenient  ven- 
[3741 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

ders  for  distribution  among  them,  they  come 
wheeling  in  winged  battalions,  creaking  and  coo- 
ing, and  alight  on  your  head  and  shoulders  in 
that  perfect  confidence  which  so  delights  humans 
when  wild  or  half-wild  creatures  bestow  it  on 
us,  though,  at  every  opportunity,  we  do  our 
level  best  to  destroy  it  by  hunting  and  harrying 
them  to  death. 

At  night,  when  the  moon  is  up,  is  the  time 
to  visit  this  spot.  Standing  here,  with  the 
looming  pile  of  the  Doge's  Palace  bulked  be- 
hind you,  and  the  gorgeous  but  somewhat  garish 
decorations  of  the  great  cathedral  softened  and 
soothed  into  perfection  of  outline  and  coloring 
by  the  half  light,  you  can  for  the  moment  forget 
the  fallen  state  of  Venice,  and  your  imagination 
peoples  the  splendid  plaza  for  you  with  the 
ghosts  of  its  dead  and  vanished  greatnesses. 
You  conceive  of  the  place  as  it  must  have  looked 
in  those  old,  brave,  wicked  days,  filled  all  with 
knights,  with  red-robed  cardinals  and  clanking 
men  at  arms,  with  fair  ladies  and  grave  senators, 
slinking  bravos  and  hired  assassins — and  all  so 
gay  with  silk  and  satin  and  glittering  steel  and 
spangling  gems. 

By  the  eye  of  your  mind  you  see  His  Illumi- 
nated Excellency,  the  frosted  Christmas  card,  as 
he  bows  low  before  His  Eminence,  the  pink 
Easter  egg;  you  see,  half  hidden  behind  the 
shadowed  columns  of  the  long  portico,  an  illus- 
trated Sunday  supplement  in  six  colors  bargain- 
ing with  a  stick  of  striped  peppermint  candy  to 
[375] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


have  his  best  friend  stabbed  in  the  back  before 
morning;  you  see  giddy  poster  designs  carrying 
on  flirtations  with  hand-painted  valentines;  you 
catch  the  love-making,  overhear  the  intriguing, 
and  scent  the  plotting;  you  are  an  eyewitness  to 
a  slice  out  of  the  life  of  the  most  sinister,  the 
most  artistic,  and  the  most  murderous  period  of 
Italian  history. 

But  by  day  imperious  Caesar,  dead  and 
turn'd  to  clay,  stops  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind 
away;  and  the  wild  ass  of  the  ninety-day  tour 
stamps  his  heedless  hoofs  over  the  spot  where 
sleeps  the  dust  of  departed  grandeur.  By  day 
the  chug  of  the  motor  boat  routs  out  old  sleepy 
echoes  from  cracked  and  crannied  ruins;  the 
burnished  golden  frescoes  of  Saint  Mark's  blare  at 
you  as  with  brazen  trumpets;  every  third  medie- 
val church  has  been  turned  into  a  moving-pic- 
ture place;  and  the  shopkeeping  parasites  buzz 
about  you  in  vermin  swarms  and  bore  holes  in 
your  pocketbook  until  it  is  all  one  large  painful 
welt.  The  emblem  of  Venice  is  the  winged  lion. 
It  should  be  the  tapeworm. 

In  Rome  it  appears  to  be  a  standing  rule  that 
every  authenticated  guide  shall  be  a  violent 
Socialist  and  therefore  rampingly  anticlerical  in 
all  his  views.  We  were  in  Rome  during  the 
season  of  pilgrimages.  From  all  parts  of  Italy, 
from  Bohemia  and  Hungary  and  Spain  and 
Tyrol,  and  even  from  France,  groups  of  peasants 
had  come  to  Rome  to  worship  in  their  mother 
church  and  be  blessed  by  the  supreme  pontiff 
[376] 


VENICE    AND    THE    VENISONS 

of  their  faith.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  they  were 
passing  through  the  streets,  bound  for  Saint 
Peter's  or  the  Vatican,  the  women  with  kerchiefs 
over  their  heads,  the  men  in  their  Sunday  best, 
and  all  with  badges  and  tokens  on  their  breasts. 

At  the  head  of  each  straggling  procession 
would  be  a  black-frocked  village  priest,  at  once 
proud  and  humble,  nervous  and  exalted.  A  man 
might  be  of  any  religion  or  of  no  religion  at  all, 
and  yet  I  fail  to  see  how  he  could  watch,  un- 
moved, the  uplifted  faces  of  these  people  as 
they  clumped  over  the  cobbles  of  the  Holy  City, 
praying  as  they  went.  Some  of  them  had  been 
saving  up  all  their  lives,  I  imagine,  against  the 
coming  of  this  great  day;  but  our  guide — and 
we  tried  three  different  ones — never  beheld  this 
sight  that  he  did  not  sneer  at  it;  and  not  once 
did  he  fail  to  point  out  that  most  of  the  pilgrims 
were  middle-aged  or  old,  taking  this  as  proof  of 
his  claim  that  the  Church  no  longer  kept  its 
hold  on  the  younger  people,  even  among  the 
peasant  classes.  The  still  more  frequent  specta- 
cle of  a  marching  line  of  students  of  one  of  the 
holy  colleges,  with  each  group  wearing  the  dis- 
tinctive insignia  of  its  own  country — purple 
robes  or  green  sashes,  or  what  not — would  excite 
him  to  the  verge  of  a  spasm. 

But  then  he  was  always  verging  on  a  spasm 
anyway — spasms  were  his  normal  state. 


3771 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  COMBUSTIBLE  CAPTAIN  OF 

VIENNA 


OUR    guide    in    Vienna    was    the    most 
stupid  human  being  I  ever  saw.      He 
was    profoundly    ignorant    on    a    tre- 
mendously wide  range  of  subjects;  he 
had  a  most  complete  repertoire  of  ignorance.   He 
must  have  spent  years  of  study  to  store  up  so 
much  interesting  misinformation.     This  guide 
was  much  addicted  to  indulgence  of  a  peculiar 
form  of  twisted  English  and  at  odd  moments 
given  to  the  consumption  of  a  delicacy  of  strictly 
Germanic  origin,  known  in  the  language  of  the 
Teutons  as  a  rollmops.    A  rollmops  consists  of  a 
large  dilled  cucumber,  with  a  pickled  herring 
coiled  round  it  ready  to  strike,  in  the  design  of 
the  rattlesnake-and-pinetree  flag  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, the  motto  in  both  instances  being  in  effect: 
"Don't  monkey  with  the  buzz  saw!"    He  car- 
ried his  rollmops  in  his  pocket  a-nd  frequently,  in 
art  galleries  or  elsewhere,  would  draw  it  out  and 
[378] 


THE      COMBUSTIBLE     CAPTAIN    OF    VIENNA 

nibble  it,  while  disseminating  inaccuracies  touch- 
ing on  pictures  and  statues  and  things. 

Among  other  places,  he  took  us  to  the  oldest 
church  in  Vienna.  As  I  now  recollect  it  was 
six  hundred  years  old.  No;  on  second  thought 
I  will  say  it  must  have  been  older  than  that. 
No  church  could  possibly  become  so  moldy 
and  mangy  looking  as  that  church  in  only 
six  hundred  years.  The  object  in  this  church 
that  interested  me  most  was  contained  in  an 
ornate  glass  case  placed  near  the  altar  and 
alongside  the  relics  held  to  be  sacred.  It  did 
not  exactly  please  me  to  gaze  at  this  article; 
but  the  thing  had  a  fascination  for  me;  I  will 
not  deny  that. 

It  seems  that  a  couple  of  centuries  ago  there 
was  an  officer  in  Vienna,  a  captain  in  rank  and 
a  Frenchman  by  birth,  who,  in  the  midst  of 
disorders  and  licentiousness,  lived  so  godly  and 
so  sanctified  a  life  that  his  soldiers  took  it  into 
their  heads  that  he  was  really  a  saint,  or  at 
least  had  the  making  of  a  first-rate  saint  in 
him,  and,  therefore,  must  lead  a  charmed  life. 
So — thus  runs  the  tale — some  of  them  laid  a 
wager  with  certain  Doubting  Thomases,  also 
soldiers,  that  neither  by  fire  nor  water,  neither 
by  rope  nor  poison,  could  he  take  harm  to  him- 
self. Finally  they  decided  on  fire  for  the  test. 
So  they  waited  until  he  slept — those  simple, 
honest,  chuckle-headed  chaps — and  then  they 
slipped  in  with  a  lighted  torch  and  touched 
him  off. 

[379] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Well,  sir,  the  joke  certainly  was  on  those 
soldiers.  He  burned  up  with  all  the  spontaneous 
enthusiasm  of  a  celluloid  comb.  For  qualities 
of  instantaneous  combustion  he  must  have  been 
the  equal  of  any  small-town  theater  that  ever 
was  built — with  one  exit.  He  was  practically  a 
total  loss  and  there  was  no  insurance. 

They  still  have  him,  or  what  is  left  of  him, 
in  that  glass  case.  He  did  not  exactly  suffer 
martyrdom — though  probably  he  personally  did 
not  notice  any  very  great  difference — and  so  he 
has  not  been  canonized;  nevertheless,  they  have 
him  there  in  that  church.  In  all  Europe  I  only 
saw  one  sight  to  match  him,  and  that  was  down 
in  the  crypt  under  the  Church  of  the  Capuchins, 
in  Rome,  where  the  dissected  cadavers  of  four 
thousand  dead — but  not  gone — monks  are 
worked  up  into  decorations.  There  are  altars 
made  of  their  skulls,  and  chandeliers  made  of 
their  thigh  bones;  frescoes  of  their  spines;  mo- 
saics of  their  teeth  and  dried  muscles ;  cozy  cor- 
ners of  their  femurs  and  pelves  and  tibiae.  There 
are  two  classes  of  travelers  I  would  strongly 
advise  not  to  visit  the  crypt  of  the  Capuchins' 
Church — those  who  are  just  about  to  have  dinner 
and  want  to  have  it,  and  those  who  have  just 
had  dinner  and  want  to  keep  on  having  it. 

At  the  royal  palace  in  Vienna  we  saw  the 
finest,  largest,  and  gaudiest  collection  of  crown 
jewels  extant.  That  guide  of  ours  seemed  to 
think  he  had  done  his  whole  duty  toward  us 
and  could  call  it  a  day  and  knock  off  when  he 
[380] 


ABROAD  WE  HOUSE  OUR  EMBASSIES  UP  BACK  STREETS, 
NEXT  DOOR   TO   BIRD   AXD   ANIMAL  STORES 


THE      COMBUSTIBLE     CAPTAIN    OF    VIENNA 

led  us  up  to  the  jewel  collections,  where  each 
case  was  surrounded  by  pop-eyed  American  tour- 
ists taking  on  flesh  at  the  sight  of  all  those  spark- 
lers and  figuring  up  the  grand  total  of  their  valua- 
tion in  dollars,  on  the  basis  of  so  many  hundreds 
of  carats  at  so  many  hundred  dollars  a  carat, 
until  reason  tottered  on  her  throne — and  did 
not  have  so  very  far  to  totter,  either. 

The  display  of  all  those  gems,  however,  did 
not  especially  excite  me.  There  were  too  many 
of  them  and  they  were  too  large.  A  blue  Kim- 
berley  in  a  hotel  clerk's  shirtfront  or  a  pigeon- 
blood  ruby  on  a  faro  dealer's  little  finger  might 
hold  my  attention  and  win  my  admiration;  but 
where  jewels  are  piled  up  in  heaps  like  anthracite 
in  a  coal  bin  they  thrill  me  no  more  than  the 
anthracite  would.  A  quart  measure  of  diamonds 
of  the  average  size  of  a  big  hailstone  does  not 
make  me  think  of  diamonds  but  of  hailstones.  I 
could  remain  as  calm  in  their  presence  as  I 
should  in  the  presence  of  a  quart  of  cracked  ice; 
in  fact,  calmer  than  I  should  remain  in  the 
presence  of  a  quart  of  cracked  ice  in  Italy,  say, 
where  there  is  not  that  much  ice,  cracked  or 
otherwise.  In  Italy  a  bucketful  of  ice  would 
be  worth  traveling  miles  to  see.  You  could  sell 
tickets  for  it. 

In  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the  palace  we 
came  on  a  casket  containing  a  necklace  of  great 
smoldering  rubies  and  a  pair  of  bracelets  to 
match.  They  were  as  big  as  cranberries  and  as 
red  as  blood — as  red  as  arterial  blood.  And 
[383J 


EUROPE    REVISED 


when,  on  consulting  the  guidebook,  we  read  the 
history  of  those  rubies  the  sight  of  them  brought 
a  picture  to  our  minds,  for  they  had  been  a  part 
of  the  wedding  dowry  of  Marie  Antoinette. 
Once  on  a  time  this  necklace  had  spanned  the 
slender  white  throat  that  was  later  to  be  sheared 
by  the  guillotine,  and  these  bracelets  had  clasped 
the  same  white  wrists  that  were  roped  together 
with  an  ell  of  hangman's  hemp  on  the  day  the 
desolated  queen  rode,  in  her  patched  and  shab- 
by gown,  to  the  Place  de  la  Revolution. 

I  had  seen  paintings  in  plenty  and  read  de- 
scriptions galore  of  that  last  ride  of  the  Widow 
Capet  going  to  her  death  in  the  tumbril,  with 
the  priest  at  her  side  and  her  poor,  fettered  arms 
twisted  behind  her,  and  her  white  face  bared  to 
the  jeers  of  the  mob;  but  the  physical  presence 
of  those  precious  useless  baubles,  which  had  cost 
so  much  and  yet  had  bought  so  little  for  her, 
made  more  vivid  to  me  than  any  picture  or  any 
story  the  most  sublime  tragedy  of  The  Terror — 
the  tragedy  of  those  two  bound  hands. 


[384] 


CHAPTER  XXI 
OLD  MASTERS  AND  OTHER  RUINS 


IT  is  naturally  a  fine  thing  for  one,  and  grati- 
fying, to  acquire  a  thorough  art  education. 
Personally  I  do  not  in  the  least  regret  the 
time  I  gave  and  the  study  I  devoted  to 
acquiring  mine.     I  regard  those  two  weeks  as 
having  been  well  spent. 

I  shall  not  do  it  soon  again,  however,  for  now 
I  know  all  about  art.  Let  others  who  have  not 
enjoyed  my  advantages  take  up  this  study.  Let 
others  scour  the  art  galleries  of  Europe  seeking 
masterpieces.  All  of  them  contain  masterpieces 
and  most  of  them  need  scouring.  As  for  me  and 
mine,  we  shall  go  elsewhere.  I  love  my  art,  but  I 
am  not  fanatical  on  the  subject.  There  is  an- 
other side  of  my  nature  to  which  an  appeal  may 
be  made.  I  can  take  my  Old  Masters  or  I  can 
leave  them  be.  That  is  the  way  I  am  organized 
—I  have  self-control. 

I  shall  not  deny  that  the  earlier  stages  of  my 
art  education  were  fraught  with  agreeable  little 
surprises.     Not  soon  shall  I  forget  the  flush  of 
[3851 


EUROPE    REVISED 


satisfaction  which  ran  through  me  on  learning 
that  this  man  Dore's  name  was  pronounced  like 
the  first  two  notes  in  the  music  scale,  instead  of 
like  a  Cape  Cod  fishing  boat.  And  lingering  in 
my  mind  as  a  fragrant  memory  is  the  day  when 
I  first  discovered  that  Spagnoletto  was  neither  a 
musical  instrument  nor  something  to  be  served 
au  gratin  and  eaten  with  a  fork.  Such  acquire- 
ments as  these  are  very  precious  to  me. 

But  for  the  time  being  I  have  had  enough. 
At  this  hour  of  writing  I  feel  that  I  am  stocked 
up  with  enough  of  Bouguereau's  sorrel  ladies 
and  Titian's  chestnut  ones  and  Rubens'  bay 
ones  and  Velasquez's  pintos  to  last  me,  at  a 
conservative  estimate,  for  about  seventy-five 
years.  I  am  too  young  as  a  theatergoer  to  recall 
much  about  Lydia  Thompson's  Blondes,  but  I 
have  seen  sufficient  of  Botticelli's  to  do  me  am- 
ply well  for  a  spell.  I  am  still  willing  to  walk 
a  good  distance  to  gaze  on  one  of  Rembrandt's 
portraits  of  one  of  his  kinfolks,  though  I  must 
say  he  certainly  did  have  a  lot  of  mighty  homely 
relatives;  and  any  time  there  is  a  first-rate 
Millet  or  Corot  or  Meissonier  in  the  neighbor- 
hood I  wish  somebody  would  drop  me  a  line, 
giving  the  address.  As  for  pictures  by  Tinto- 
retto, showing  Venetian  Doges  hobnobbing  in- 
formally with  members  of  the  Holy  Family,  and 
Raphael's  angels,  and  Michelangelo's  lost  souls, 
and  Guides,  and  Murillos,  I  have  had  enough 
to  do  me  for  months  and  months  and  months. 
Nor  am  I  in  the  market  for  any  of  the  dead 
[386] 


OLD    MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

fish  of  the  Flemish  school.  Judging  by  what  I 
have  observed,  practically  all  the  Flemish  paint- 
ers were  devout  churchmen  and  painted  their 
pictures  on  Friday. 

There  was  just  one  drawback  to  my  complete 
enjoyment  of  that  part  of  our  European  travels 
we  devoted  to  art.  We  would  go  to  an  art 
gallery,  hire  a  guide  and  start  through.  Pres- 
ently I  would  come  to  a  picture  that  struck  me 
as  being  distinctly  worth  while.  To  my  un- 
tutored conceptions  it  possessed  unlimited  beau- 
ty. There  was,  it  seemed  to  me,  life  in  the 
figures,  reality  in  the  colors,  grace  in  the  group- 
ing. And  then,  just  when  I  was  beginning  really 
to  enjoy  it,  the  guide  would  come  and  snatch 
me  away. 

He  would  tell  me  the  picture  I  thought  I  ad- 
mired was  of  no  account  whatsoever — that  the 
artist  who  painted  it  had  not  yet  been  dead 
long  enough  to  give  his  work  any  permanent 
value;  and  he  would  drag  me  off  to  look  at  a 
cracked  and  crumbling  canvas  depicting  a  col- 
lection of  saints  of  lacquered  complexions  and 
hardwood  expressions,  with  cast-iron  trees  stand- 
ing up  against  cotton-batting  clouds  in  the 
background,  and  a  few  extra  halos  floating  round 
indiscriminately,  like  sun  dogs  on  a  showery 
day,  and,  up  above,  the  family  entrance  into 
heaven  hospitably  ajar;  and  he  would  command 
me  to  bask  my  soul  in  this  magnificent  example 
of  real  art  and  not  waste  time  on  inconsequential 
and  trivial  things.  Guides  have  the  same  idea 
[387] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


of  an  artist  that  a  Chinaman  entertains  for  an 
egg.     A  fresh  egg  or  a  fresh  artist  will  not  do.  /T\     ./ 
It  must  have  the  perfume  of  antiquity  behind^ 
it  to  make  it  attractive. 

At  the  Louvre,  in  Paris,  on  the  first  day  of 
the  two  we  spent  there,  we  had  for  our  guide  a 
tall,  educated  Prussian,  who  had  an  air  about 
him  of  being  an  ex-officer  of  the  army.  All  over 
the  Continent  you  are  constantly  running  into 
men  engaged  in  all  manner  of  legitimate  and 
dubious  callings,  who  somehow  impress  you  as 
having  served  in  the  army  of  some  other  coun- 
try than  the  one  in  which  you  find  them.  After 
this  man  had  been  chaperoning  us  about  for  some 
hours  and  we  had  stopped  to  rest,  he  told  a 
good  story.  It  may  not  have  been  true — it  has 
been  my  experience  that  very  few  good  stories 
are  true;  but  it  served  aptly  to  illustrate  a  cer- 
tain type  of  American  tourist  numerously  en- 
countered abroad. 

"There  were  two  of  them,"  he  said  in  his 
excellent  English,  "a  gentleman  and  his  wife; 
and  from  what  I  saw  of  them  I  judged  them  to 
be  very  wealthy.  They  were  interested  in  seeing 
only  such  things  as  had  been  recommended  by 
the  guidebook.  The  husband  would  tell  me 
they  desired  to  see  such  and  such  a  picture  or 
statue.  I  would  escort  them  to  it  and  they 
would  glance  at  it  indifferently,  and  the  gentle- 
man would  take  out  his  lead  pencil  and  check 
off  that  particular  object  in  the  book;  and  then 
he  would  say:  'All  right — we've  seen  that;  now 
[388] 


OLD    MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

let's  find  out  what  we  want  to  look  at  next.' 
We  still  serve  a  good  many  people  like  that — 
not  so  many  as  formerly,  but  still  a  good  many. 

"Finally  I  decided  to  try  a  little  scheme  of 
my  own.  I  wanted  to  see  whether  I  could  really 
win  their  admiration  for  something.  I  picked 
out  a  medium-size  painting  of  no  particular  im- 
portance and,  pointing  to  it,  said  impressively: 
'Here,  m'sieur,  is  a  picture  worth  a  million  dol- 
lars— without  the  frame!' 

" '  What's  that? '  he  demanded  excitedly.  Then 
he  called  to  his  wife,  who  had  strayed  ahead  a 
few  steps.  'Henrietta,'  he  said,  'come  back 
here — you're  missing  something.  There's  a  pic- 
ture there  that's  worth  a  million  dollars — and 
without  the  frame,  too,  mind  you!' 

"She  came  hurrying  back  and  for  ten  minutes 
they  stood  there  drinking  in  that  picture.  Every 
second  they  discovered  new  and  subtle  beauties 
in  it.  I  could  hardly  induce  them  to  go  on  for 
the  rest  of  the  tour,  and  the  next  day  they  came 
back  for  another  soul-feast  in  front  of  it." 

Later  along,  that  guide  confided  to  me  that 
in  his  opinion  I  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  art, 
much  keener  than  the  average  lay  tourist.  The 
compliment  went  straight  to  my  head.  It  was 
seeking  the  point  of  least  resistance,  I  suppose. 
I  branched  out  and  undertook  to  discuss  art 
matters  with  him  on  a  more  familiar  basis.  It 
was  a  mistake;  but  before  I  realized  that  it  was 
a  mistake  I  was  out  in  the  undertow  sixty  yards 
from  shore,  going  down  for  the  third  time,  with 
[389] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


a  low  gurgling  cry.  He  did  not  put  out  to  save 
me,  either;  he  left  me  to  sink  in  the  heaving  and 
abysmal  sea  of  my  own  fathomless  ignorance. 
He  just  stood  there  and  let  me  drown.  It  was 
a  cruel  thing,  for  which  I  can  never  forgive  him. 

In  my  own  defense  let  me  say,  however,  that 
this  fatal  indiscretion  was  committed  before  I 
had  completed  my  art  education.  It  was  after 
we  had  gone  from  France  to  Germany,  and  to 
Austria,  and  to  Italy,  that  I  learned  the  great 
lesson  about  art — which  is  that  whenever  and 
wherever  you  meet  a  picture  that  seems  to  you 
reasonably  lifelike  it  is  nine  times  in  ten  of  no 
consequence  whatsoever;  and,  unless  you  are 
willing  to  be  regarded  as  a  mere  ignoramus,  you 
should  straightway  leave  it  and  go  and  find  some 
ancient  picture  of  a  group  of  overdressed  clothing 
dummies  masquerading  as  angels  or  martyrs, 
and  stand  before  that  one  and  carry  on  regard- 
less. 

When  in  doubt,  look  up  a  picture  of  Saint 
Sebastian.  You  never  experience  any  difficulty 
in  finding  him — he  is  always  represented  as 
wearing  very  few  clothes,  being  shot  full  of 
arrows  to  such  an  extent  that  clothes  would  not 
fit  him  anyway.  Or  else  seek  out  Saint  Lau- 
rence, who  is  invariably  featured  in  connection 
with  a  gridiron;  or  Saint  Bartholomew,  who, 
you  remember,  achieved  canonization  through 
a  process  of  flaying,  and  is  therefore  shown  with 
his  skin  folded  neatly  and  carried  over  his  arm 
like  a  spring  overcoat. 

[390] 


IT  MtTST  BE  MONTHS  BEFORE  SOME  OF  THEM  QUIT  PANTING 


OLD    MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

Following  this  routine  you  make  no  mistakes. 
Everybody  is  bound  to  accept  you  as  one  pos- 
sessing a  deep  knowledge  of  art,  and  not  mere 
surface  art  either,  but  the  innermost  meanings 
and  conceptions  of  art.  Only  sometimes  I  did 
get  to  wishing  that  the  Old  Masters  had  left  a 
little  more  to  the  imagination.  They  never 
withheld  any  of  the  painful  particulars.  It 
seemed  to  me  they  cheapened  the  glorious  end 
of  those  immortal  fathers  of  the  faith  by  in- 
cluding the  details  of  the  martyrdom  in  every 
picture.  Still,  I  would  not  have  that  admission 
get  out  and  obtain  general  circulation.  It  might 
be  used  against  me  as  an  argument  that  my 
artistic  education  was  grounded  on  a  false 
foundation. 

It  was  in  Rome,  while  we  were  doing  the 
Vatican,  that  our  guide  furnished  us  with  a 
sight  that,  considered  as  a  human  experience, 
was  worth  more  to  me  than  a  year  of  Old  Mas- 
ters and  Young  Messers.  We  had  pushed  our 
poor  blistered  feet — a  dozen  or  more  of  us — 
past  miles  of  paintings  and  sculptures  and  relics 
and  art  objects,  and  we  were  tired — oh,  so  tired! 
Our  eyes  ached  and  our  shoes  hurt  us;  and  the 
calves  of  our  legs  quivered  as  we  trailed  along 
from  gallery  to  corridor,  and  from  corridor  back 
to  gallery. 

We  had  visited  the  Sistine  Chapel;  and,  such 
was  our  weariness,  we  had  even  declined  to  be- 
come excited  over  Michelangelo's  great  picture 
of  the  Last  Judgment.  I  was  disappointed,  too, 
[393] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


that  he  had  omitted  to  include  in  his  collection 
of  damned  souls  a  number  of  persons  I  had 
confidently  and  happily  expected  would  be 
present.  I  saw  no  one  there  even  remotely  re- 
sembling my  conception  of  the  person  who  first 
originated  and  promulgated  the  doctrine  that 
all  small  children  should  be  told  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  that  there  is  no  Santa  Glaus. 
That  was  a  very  severe  blow  to  me,  because  I 
had  always  believed  that  the  descent  to  eternal 
perdition  would  be  incomplete  unless  he  had  a 
front  seat.  And  the  man  who  first  hit  on  the 
plan  of  employing  child  labor  on  night  shifts 
in  cotton  factories — he  was  unaccountably  ab- 
sent too.  And  likewise  the  original  inventor  of 
the  toy  pistol;  in  fact  the  absentees  were  entirely 
too  numerous  to  suit  me.  There  was  one  thing, 
though,  to  be  said  in  praise  of  Michelangelo's 
Last  Judgment;  it  was  too  large  and  too  compli- 
cated to  be  reproduced  successfully  on  a  souvenir 
postal  card;  and  I  think  we  should  all  be  very 
grateful  for  that  mercy  anyway. 

As  I  was  saying,  we  had  left  the  Sistine  Chapel 
a  mile  or  so  behind  us  and  had  dragged  our  ex- 
hausted frames  as  far  as  an  arched  upper  portico 
in  a  wing  of  the  great  palace,  overlooking  a 
paved  courtyard  inclosed  at  its  farther  end  b;y 
a  side  wall  of  Saint  Peter's.  We  saw,  in  another 
portico  similar  to  the  one  where  we  had  halted 
and  running  parallel  to  it,  long  rows  of  peasants, 
all  kneeling  and  all  with  their  faces  turned  in 
the  same  direction. 

[394J 


OLD     MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

"Wait  here  a  minute,"  said  our  guide.  "I 
think  you  will  see  something  not  included  in 
the  regular  itinerary  of  the  day." 

So  we  waited.  In  a  minute  or  two  the  long 
lines  of  kneeling  peasants  raised  a  hymn;  the 
sound  of  it  came  to  us  in  quavering  snatches. 
Through  the  aisle  formed  by  their  bodies  a  pro- 
cession passed  the  length  of  the  long  portico 
and  back  to  the  starting  point.  First  came 
Swiss  Guards  in  their  gay  piebald  uniforms, 
carrying  strange-looking  pikes  and  halberds;  and 
behind  them  were  churchly  dignitaries,  all  bared 
of  head;  and  last  of  all  came  a  very  old  and 
very  feeble  man,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  wide- 
brimmed  white  hat — and  he  had  white  hair 
and  a  white  face,  which  seemed  drawn  and  worn, 
but  very  gentle  and  kindly  and  beneficent. 

He  held  his  right  arm  aloft,  with  the  first  two 
fingers  extended  in  the  gesture  of  the  apostolic 
benediction.  He  was  so  far  away  from  us  that 
in  perspective  his  profile  was  reduced  to  the 
miniature  proportions  of  a  head  on  a  postage 
stamp;  but,  all  the  same,  the  lines  of  it  stood 
out  clear  and  distinct.  It  was  His  Holiness, 
Pope  Pius  the  Tenth,  blessing  a  pilgrimage. 

All  the  guides  in  Rome  follow  a  regular  routine 
with  the  tourist.  First,  of  course,  they  steer 
you  into  certain  shops  in  the  hope  that  you  will 
buy  something  and  thereby  enable  them  to  earn 
commissions.  Then,  in  turn,  they  carry  you  to 
an  art  gallery,  to  a  church,  and  to  a  palace, 
with  stops  at  other  shops  interspersed  between; 
[3951 


EUROPE    REVISED 


and  invariably  they  wind  up  in  the  vicinity  of 
some  of  the  ruins.  Ruins  is  a  Roman  guide's 
middle  name;  ruins  are  his  one  best  bet.  In 
Rome  I  saw  ruins  until  I  was  one  myself. 

We  devoted  practically  an  entire  day  to  ruins. 
That  was  the  day  we  drove  out  the  Appian  Way, 
glorious  in  legend  and  tale,  but  not  quite  so 
all-fired  glorious  when  you  are  reeling  over  its 
rough  and  rutted  pavement  in  an  elderly  and 
indisposed  open  carriage,  behind  a  pair  of  half- 
broken  Roman-nosed  horses  which  insist  on 
walking  on  their  hind  legs  whenever  they  tire 
of  going  on  four.  The  Appian  Way,  as  at 
present  constituted,  is  a  considerable  disap- 
pointment. For  long  stretches  it  runs  between 
high  stone  walls,  broken  at  intervals  by  gate- 
ways, where  votive  lamps  burn  before  small 
shrines,  and  by  the  tombs  of  such  illustrious 
dead  as  Seneca  and  the  Horatii  and  the  Curiatii. 
At  more  frequent  intervals  are  small  wine  grog- 
geries.  Being  built  mainly  of  Italian  marble, 
which  is  the  most  enduring  and  the  most  un- 
yielding substance  to  be  found  in  all  Italy — 
except  a  linen  collar  that  has  been  starched  in 
an  Italian  laundry — the  tombs  are  in  a  pretty 
fair  state  of  preservation;  but  the  inns,  without 
exception,  stand  most  desperately  in  need  of  im- 
mediate repairing. 

A  cow  in  Italy  is  known  by  the  company  she 

keeps;  she  rambles  about,  in  and  out  of  the  open 

parlor  of  the  wayside  inn,  mingling  freely  with 

the  patrons  and  the  members  of  the  proprietor's 

[396] 


OLD    MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

household.  Along  the  Appian  Way  a  cow  never 
seems  to  care  whom  she  runs  with ;  and  the  same 
is  true  of  the  domestic  fowls  and  the  family 
donkey.  A  donkey  will  spend  his  day  in  the 
doorway  of  a  wine  shop  when  he  might  just  as 
well  be  enjoying  the  more  sanitary  and  less 
crowded  surroundings  of  a  stable.  It  only  goes  to 
show  what  an  ass  a  donkey  is. 

Anon,  as  the  fancy  writers  say,  we  skirted  one 
of  the  many  wrecked  aqueducts  that  go  looping 
across  country  to  the  distant  hills,  like  great 
stone  straddlebugs.  In  the  vicinity  of  Rome 
you  are  rarely  out  of  sight  of  one  of  these  aque- 
ducts. The  ancient  Roman  rulers,  you  know, 
curried  the  favor  of  the  populace  by  opening 
baths.  A  modern  ruler  could  win  undying 
popularity  by  closing  up  a  few. 

We  slowed  up  at  the  Circus  of  Romulus  and 
found  it  a  very  sad  circus,  as  such  things  go — 
no  elevated  stage,  no  hippodrome  track,  no  cen- 
terpole,  no  trapeze,  and  only  one  ring.  P.  T. 
Barnum  would  have  been  ashamed  to  own  it. 
A  broken  wall,  following  the  lines  of  an  irregular 
oval;  a  cabbage  patch  where  the  arena  had  been; 
and  various  tumble-down  farmsheds  built  into 
the  shattered  masonry — this  was  the  Circus 
of  Romulus.  However,  it  was  not  the  circus  of 
the  original  Romulus,  but  of  a  degenerate  suc- 
cessor of  the  same  name  who  rose  suddenly  and 
fell  abruptly  after  the  Christian  era  was  well 
begun.  Old  John  J.  Romulus  would  not  have 
stood  for  that  circus  a  minute. 
[397] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


No  ride  on  the  Appian  Way  is  regarded  as 
complete  without  half  an  hour's  stop  at  the 
Catacombs  of  Saint  Calixtus;  so  we  stopped. 
Guided  by  a  brown  Trappist,  and  all  of  us  bear- 
ing twisted  tapers  in  our  hands,  we  descended 
by  stone  steps  deep  under  the  skin  of  the  earth 
and  wandered  through  dim,  dank  underground 
passages,  where  thousands  of  early  Christians 
had  lived  and  hid,  and  held  clandestine  worship 
before  rude  stone  altars,  and  had  died  and  been 
buried — died  in  a  highly  unpleasant  fashion, 
some  of  them. 

The  experience  was  impressive,  but  malarial. 
Coming  away  from  there  I  had  an  argument 
with  a  fellow  American.  He  said  that  if  we  had 
these  Catacombs  in  America  we  should  un- 
doubtedly enlarge  them  and  put  in  band  stands 
and  lunch  places,  and  altogether  make  them 
more  attractive  for  picnic  parties  and  Sunday 
excursionists.  I  contended,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  if  they  were  in  America  the  authorities 
would  close  them  up  and  protect  the  moldered 
bones  of  those  early  Christians  from  the  vulgar 
gaze  and  prying  fingers  of  every  impious  relic 
hunter  who  might  come  along.  The  dispute 
rose  higher  and  grew  warmer  until  I  offered  to 
bet  him  fifty  dollars  that  I  was  right  and  he  was 
wrong.  He  took  me  up  promptly — he  had 
sporting  instincts;  I'll  say  that  for  him — and 
we  shook  hands  on  it  then  and  there  to  bind  the 
wager.  I  expect  to  win  that  bet. 

We  had  turned  off  the  Appian  Way  and  were 
[398] 


IF  WE  HAD  THESE  CATACOMBS  IN  AMERICA  WE  SHOULD  MAKE  THEM  MORE 
ATTRACTIVE  FOR  PICNIC  PARTIES 


OLD     MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

crossing  a  corner  of  that  unutterably  hideous 
stretch  of  tortured  and  distorted  waste  known 
as  the  Campagna,  which  goes  tumbling  away 
to  the  blue  Alban  Mountains,  when  we  came 
on  the  scene  of  an  accident.  A  two-wheeled 
mule  cart,  proceeding  along  a  crossroad,  with 
the  driver  asleep  in  his  canopied  seat,  had  been 
hit  by  a  speeding  automobile  and  knocked  gal- 
ley-west. The  automobile  had  sped  on — so  we 
were  excitedly  informed  by  some  other  tourists 
who  had  witnessed  the  collision — leaving  the 
wreckage  bottom  side  up  in  the  ditch.  The 
mule  was  on  her  back,  all  entangled  in  the 
twisted  ruination  of  her  gaudy  gear,  kicking  out 
in  that  restrained  and  genteel  fashion  in  which 
a  mule  always  kicks  when  she  is  desirous  of 
protesting  against  existing  conditions,  but  is 
wishful  not  to  damage  herself  while  so  doing. 
The  tourists,  aided  by  half  a  dozen  peasants,  had 
dragged  the  driver  out  from  beneath  the  heavy 
cart  and  had  carried  him  to  a  pile  of  mucky 
straw  beneath  the  eaves  of  a  stable.  He  was 
stretched  full  length  on  his  back,  senseless  and 
deathly  pale  under  the  smeared  grime  on  his 
face.  There  was  no  blood;  but  inside  his  torn 
shirt  his  chest  had  a  caved-in  look,  as  though 
the  ribs  had  been  crushed  flat,  and  he  seemed 
not  to  breathe  at  all.  Only  his  fingers  moved. 
They  kept  twitching,  as  though  his  life  was  run- 
ning out  of  him  through  his  finger  ends.  One 
felt  that  if  he  would  but  grip  his  hands  he  might 
stay  its  flight  and  hold  it  in. 
[401] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Just  as  we  jumped  out  of  our  carriage  a  young 
peasant  woman,  who  had  been  bending  over  the 
injured  man,  set  up  a  shrill  outcry,  which  was 
instantly  answered  from  behind  us;  and  looking 
round  we  saw,  running  through  the  bare  fields, 
a  great,  bulksome  old  woman,  with  her  arms 
outspread  and  her  face  set  in  a  tragic  shape, 
shrieking  as  she  sped  toward  us  in  her  ungainly 
wallowing  course.  She  was  the  injured  man's 
mother,  we  judged — or  possibly  his  grandmother. 

There  was  nothing  we  could  do  for  the  human 
victim.  Our  guides,  gaving  questioned  the  as- 
sembled natives,  told  us  there  was  no  hospital 
to  which  he  might  be  taken  and  that  a  neigh- 
borhood physician  had  already  been  sent  for. 
So,  having  no  desire  to  look  on  the  grief  of  his 
mother — if  she  was  his  mother — a  young  Aus- 
trian and  I  turned  our  attention  to  the  neglected 
mule.  We  felt  that  we  could  at  least  render  a 
little  first  aid  there.  We  had  our  pocket-knives 
out  and  were  slashing  away  at  the  twisted  maze 
of  ropes  and  straps  that  bound  the  brute  down 
between  the  shafts,  when  a  particularly  shrill 
chorus  of  shrieks  checked  us.  We  stood  up  and 
faced  about,  figuring  that  the  poor  devil  on  the 
muck  heap  had  died  and  that  his  people  were 
bemoaning  his  death.  That  was  not  it  at  all. 
The  entire  group,  including  the  fat  old  woman, 
were  screaming  at  us  and  shaking  their  clenched 
fists  at  us,  warning  us  not  to  damage  that  har- 
ness with  our  knives.  Feeling  ran  high,  and 
threatened  to  run  higher. 
[4021 


OLD     MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

So,  having  no  desire  to  be  mobbed  on  the 
spot,  we  desisted  and  put  up  our  knives;  and 
after  a  while  we  got  back  into  our  carriage  and 
drove  on,  leaving  the  capsized  mule  still  belly-up 
in  the  debris,  lashing  out  carefully  with  her 
skinned  legs  at  the  trappings  that  bound  her; 
and  the  driver  was  still  prone  on  the  dunghill, 
with  his  fingers  twitching  more  feebly  now,  as 
though  the  life  had  almost  entirely  fled  out  of 
him — a  grim  little  tragedy  set  in  the  edge  of  a 
wide  and  aching  desolation!  We  never  found 
out  his  name  or  learned  how  he  fared — whether 
he  lived  or  died,  and  if  he  died  how  long  he  lived 
before  he  died.  It  is  a  puzzle  which  will  always 
lie  unanswered  at  the  back  of  my  mind,  and  I 
know  that  in  odd  moments  it  will  return  to 
torment  me.  I  will  bet  one  thing,  though — 
nobody  else  tried  to  cut  that  mule  out  of  her 
harness. 

In  the  chill  late  afternoon  of  a  Roman  day 
the  guides  brought  us  back  to  the  city  and  took 
us  down  into  the  Roman  Forum,  which  is  in  a 
hollow  instead  of  being  up  on  a  hill  as  most 
folks  imagine  it  to  be  until  they  go  to  Rome 
and  see  it;  and  we  finished  up  the  day  at  the 
Golden  House  of  Nero,  hard  by  the  vast  ruins 
of  the  Coliseum.  We  had  already  visited  the 
Forum  once;  so  this  time  we  did  not  stay  long; 
just  long  enough  for  some  ambitious  pickpocket 
to  get  a  wallet  out  of  my  hip  pocket  while  I  was 
pushing  forward  with  a  flock  of  other  human 
sheep  for  a  better  look  at  the  ruined  portico 
[403] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


wherein  Mark  Antony  stood  when  he  delivered 
his  justly  popular  funeral  oration  over  the  body 
of  the  murdered  Caesar.  I  never  did  admire  the 
character  of  Mark  Antony  with  any  degree  of 
extravagance,  and  since  this  experience  I  have 
felt  actually  bitter  toward  him. 

The  guidebooks  say  that  no  visitor  to  Rome 
should  miss  seeing  the  Golden  House  of  Nero. 
When  a  guidebook  tries  to  be  humorous  it  only 
succeeds  in  being  foolish.  Practical  jokes  are 
out  of  place  in  a  guidebook  anyway.  Imagine 
a  large,  old-fashioned  brick  smokehouse,  which 
has  been  struck  by  lightning,  burned  to  the  roots 
and  buried  in  the  wreckage,  and  the  site  used 
as  a  pasture  land  for  goats  for  a  great  many 
years;  imagine  the  debris  as  having  been  dug 
out  subsequently  until  a  few  of  the  foundation 
lines  are  visible;  surround  the  whole  with  dis- 
tressingly homely  buildings  of  a  modern  aspect, 
and  stir  in  a  miscellaneous  seasoning  of  beggars 
and  loafers  and  souvenir  venders — and  you  have 
the  Golden  House  where  Nero  meant  to  round 
out  a  life  already  replete  with  incident  and 
abounding  in  romance,  but  was  deterred  from 
so  doing  by  reason  of  being  cut  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  activities  at  a  comparatively  early 
age. 

In  the  presence  of  the  Golden  House  of  Nero 
I  did  my  level  best  to  recreate  before  my  mind's 
eye  the  scenes  that  had  been  enacted  here  once 
on  a  time.  I  tried  to  picture  this  moldy,  knee- 
high  wall  as  a  great  glittering  palace;  and  yonder 
[404] 


OLD    MASTERS    AND    OTHER    RUINS 

broken  roadbed  as  a  splendid  Roman  highway; 
and  those  American-looking  tenements  on  the 
surrounding  hills  as  the  marble  dwellings  of  the 
emperors;  and  all  the  broken  pillars  and  shat- 
tered porticoes  in  the  distance  as  arches  of 
triumph  and  temples  of  the  gods.  I  tried  to 
convert  the  clustering  mendicants  into  bar- 
barian prisoners  clanking  by,  chained  at  wrist 
and  neck  and  ankle;  I  sought  to  imagine  the 
pestersome  flower  venders  as  being  vestal  virgins; 
the  two  unkempt  policemen  who  loafed  nearby, 
as  centurions  of  the  guard;  the  passing  populace 
as  grave  senators  in  snowy  togas;  the  flaunting 
underwear  on  the  many  clotheslines  as  silken 
banners  and  gilded  trappings.  I  could  not  make 
it.  I  tried  until  I  was  lame  in  both  legs  and  my 
back  was  strained.  It  was  no  go. 

If  I  had  been  a  poet  or  a  historian,  or  a  person 
full  of  Chianti,  I  presume  I  might  have  done  it; 
but  I  am  no  poet  and  I  had  not  been  drinking. 
All  I  could  think  of  was  that  the  guide  on  my 
left  had  eaten  too  much  garlic  and  that  the 
guide  on  nay  right  had  not  eaten  enough.  So 
in  self-defense  I  went  away  and  ate  a  few 
strands  of  garlic  myself;  for  I  had  learned  the 
great  lesson  of  the  proverb: 

When  in  Rome  be  an  aroma! 


[405 


CHAPTER  XXII 

STILL  MORE  RUINS,  MOSTLY  ITALIAN 
ONES 


WHEN  I   reached  Pompeii  the  situa- 
tion was  different.     I  could  conjure 
up   an   illusion   there — the   biggest, 
most  vivid  illusion  I  have  been  privi- 
leged to  harbor  since  I  was  a  small  boy.    It  was 
worth  spending  four  days  in  Naples  for  the  sake 
of  spending  half  a  day  in  Pompeii;  and  if  you 
know  Naples  you  will  readily  understand  what 
a  high  compliment  that  is  for  Pompeii. 

To  reach  Pompeii  from  Naples  we  followed  a 
somewhat  roundabout  route;  and  that  trip  was 
distinctly  worth  while  too.  It  provided  a  most 
pleasing  foretaste  of  what  was  to  come.  Once 
we  had  cleared  the  packed  and  festering  sub- 
urbs, we  went  flanking  across  a  terminal  vertebra 
of  the  mountain  range  that  sprawls  lengthwise 
of  the  land  of  Italy,  like  a  great  spiny-backed 
crocodile  sunning  itself,  with  its  tail  in  the 
Tyrrhenian  Sea  and  its  snout  in  the  Piedmonts; 
and  when  we  had  done  this  we  came  out  on  a 
highway  that  skirted  the  bay. 
[406] 


STILL  MORE    RUINS 


There  were  gaps  in  the  hills,  through  which 
we  caught  glimpses  of  the  city,  lying  miles  away 
in  its  natural  amphitheater;  and  at  that  distance 
we  could  revel  in  its  picturesqueness  and  forget 
its  bouquet  of  weird  stenches.  We  could  even 
forget  that  the  automobile  we  had  hired  for  the 
excursion  had  one  foot  in  the  grave  and  several 
of  its  most  important  vital  organs  in  the  repair 
shop.  I  reckon  that  was  the  first  automobile 
built.  No;  I  take  that  back.  It  never  was  a 
first — it  must  have  been  a  second  to  start  with. 

I  once  owned  a  half  interest  in  a  sick  auto- 
mobile. It  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned,  late 
Victorian  automobiles,  cut  princesse  style,  with 
a  plaquette  in  the  back;  and  it  looked  like  a 
cross  between  a  flat-bed  job  press  and  a  tailor's 
goose.  It  broke  down  so  easily  and  was  towed 
in  so  often  by  more  powerful  machines  that 
every  time  a  big  car  passed  it  on  the  road  it 
stopped  right  where  it  was  and  nickered.  Of  a 
morning  we  would  start  out  in  that  car  filled 
with  high  hopes  and  bright  anticipations,  but 
eventide  would  find  us  returning  homeward 
close  behind  a  bigger  automobile,  in  a  relation- 
ship strongly  suggestive  of  the  one  pictured  in 
the  well-known  Nature  Group  entitled :  "  Mother 
Hippo,  With  Young."  We  refused  an  offer  of 
four  hundred  dollars  for  that  machine.  It  had 
more  than  four  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  things 
the  matter  with  it. 

The  car  we  chartered  at  Naples  for  our  trip  to 
Pompeii  reminded  me  very  strongly  of  that 
[407] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


other  car  of  which  I  was  part  owner.  Between 
them  there  was  a  strong  family  resemblance, 
not  alone  in  looks  but  in  deportment  also.  For 
patient  endurance  of  manifold  ills,  for  an  inex- 
haustible capacity  in  developing  new  and  dis- 
tressing symptoms  at  critical  moments,  for 
cheerful  willingness  to  play  foal  to  some  other 
car's  dam,  they  might  have  been  colts  out  of 
the  same  litter.  Nevertheless,  between  intervals 
of  breaking  down  and  starting  up  again,  and 
being  helped  along  by  friendly  passer-by  auto- 
mobiles, we  enjoyed  the  ride  from  Naples.  We 
enjoyed  every  inch  of  it. 

Part  of  the  way  we  skirted  the  hobs  of  the 
great  witches'  caldron  of  Vesuvius.  On  this 
day  the  resident  demons  must  have  been  stirring 
their  brew  with  special  enthusiasm,  for  the 
smoky  smudge  which  always  wreathes  its  lips 
had  increased  to  a  great  billowy  plume  that  lay 
along  the  naked  flanges  of  the  devil  mountain 
for  miles  and  miles.  Now  we  would  go  puffing 
and  panting  through  some  small  outlying  en- 
viron of  the  city.  Always  the  principal  products 
of  such  a  village  seemed  to  be  young  babies  and 
macaroni  drying  in  the  sun.  I  am  still  reason- 
ably fond  of  babies,  but  I  date  my  loss  of  appetite 
for  imported  macaroni  from  that  hour.  Now  we 
would  emerge  on  a  rocky  headland  and  below 
us  would  be  the  sea,  eternally  young  and  dim- 
pling like  a  maiden's  cheek;  but  the  crags  above 
were  eternally  old  and  all  gashed  with  wrinkles 
and  seamed  with  folds,  like  the  jowls  of  an  an- 
[408] 


STILL    MORE    RUINS 


cient  squaw.  Then  for  a  distance  we  would  run 
right  along  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Directly  be- 
neath us  we  could  see  little  stone  huts  of  fisher- 
men clinging  to  the  rocks  just  above  high-water 
mark,  like  so  many  gray  limpets;  and  then, 
looking  up,  we  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
vineyards,  tucked  into  man-made  terraces  along 
the  upper  cliffs,  like  bundled  herbs  on  the  pantry 
shelves  of  a  thrifty  housewife;  and  still  higher 
up  there  would  be  orange  groves  and  lemon 
groves  and  dusty-gray  olive  groves.  Each 
succeeding  picture  was  Byzantine  in  its  coloring. 
Always  the  sea  was  molten  blue  enamel,  and 
the  far-away  villages  seemed  crafty  inlays  of 
mosaic  work;  and  the  sun  was  a  disk  of  ham- 
mered Grecian  gold. 

A  man  from  San  Francisco  was  sharing  the 
car  with  us,  and  he  came  right  out  and  said  that 
if  he  were  sure  heaven  would  be  as  beautiful  as 
the  Bay  of  Naples,  he  would  change  all  his  plans 
and  arrange  to  go  there.  He  said  he  might  de- 
cide to  go  there  anyhow,  because  heaven  was 
a  place  he  had  always  heard  very  highly  spoken 
of.  And  I  agreed  with  him. 

The  sun  was  slipping  down  the  western  sky 
and  was  laced  with  red  like  a  bloodshot  eye, 
with  a  Jacob's  Ladder  of  rainbow  shafts  stream- 
ing down  from  it  to  the  water,  when  we  turned 
inland;  and  after  several  small  minor  stops, 
while  the  automobile  caught  its  breath  and  had 
the  heaves  and  the  asthma,  we  came  to  Pompeii 
over  a  road  built  of  volcanic  rock.  I  have  al- 
[409] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ways  been  glad  that  we  went  there  on  a  day 
when  visitors  were  few.  The  very  solitude  of 
the  place  aided  the  mind  in  the  task  of  repeo- 
pling  the  empty  streets  of  that  dead  city  by  the 
sea  with  the  life  that  was  hers  nearly  two  thou- 
sand years  ago.  Herculaneum  will  always  be 
buried,  so  the  scientists  say,  for  Herculaneum 
was  snuggled  close  up  under  Vesuvius,  and  the 
hissing-hot  lava  came  down  in  waves;  and  first 
it  slugged  the  doomed  town  to  death  and  then 
slagged  it  over  with  impenetrable,  flint-hard  de- 
posits. Pompeii,  though,  lay  farther  away,  and 
was  entombed  in  dust  and  ashes  only;  so  that 
it  has  been  comparatively  easy  to  unearth  it 
and  make  it  whole  again.  Even  so,  after  one 
hundred  and  sixty-odd  years  of  more  or  less 
desultory  explorations,  nearly  a  third  of  its 
supposed  area  is  yet  to  be  excavated. 

It  was  in  the  year  1592  that  an  architect 
named  Fontana,  'in  cutting  an  aqueduct  which 
was  to  convey  the  waters  of  the  Sarno  to  Torre 
dell'  Annunziata,  discovered  the  foundations  of 
the  Temple  of  Isis,  which  stood  near  the  walls 
on  the  inner  or  land  side  of  the  ancient  city.  It 
was  at  first  supposed  that  he  had  dug  into  an 
isolated  villa  of  some  rich  Roman;  and  it  was 
not  until  1748  that  prying  archaeologists  hit  on 
the  truth  and  induced  the  Government  to  send 
a  chain  gang  of  convicts  to  dig  away  the  ac- 
cumulations of  earth  and  tufa.  But  if  it  had 
been  a  modern  Italian  city  that  was  buried,  no 
such  mistake  in  preliminary  diagnosis  could 
[410] 


STILL    MORE    RUINS 


have  occurred.  Anybody  would  have  known  it 
instantly  by  the  smell.  I  do  not  vouch  for  the 
dates — I  copied  them  out  of  the  guidebook;  but 
my  experience  with  Italian  cities  qualifies  me 
to  speak  with  authority  regarding  the  other 
matter. 

Afoot  we  entered  Pompeii  by  the  restored 
Marine  Gate.  Our  first  step  within  the  walls 
was  at  the  Museum,  a  comparatively  modern 
building,  but  containing  a  fairly  complete  as- 
sortment of  the  relics  that  from  time  to  time 
have  been  disinterred  in  various  quarters  of  the 
city.  Here  are  wall  cabinets  filled  with  tools, 
ornaments,  utensils,  jewelry,  furniture — all  the 
small  things  that  fulfilled  everyday  functions  in 
the  first  century  of  the  Christian  era.  Here  is 
a  kit  of  surgical  implements,  and  some  of  the 
implements  might  well  belong  to  a  modern  hos- 
pital. There  are  foodstuffs — grains  and  fruits; 
wines  and  oil;  loaves  of  bread  baked  in  79  A.  D. 
and  left  in  the  abandoned  ovens;  and  a  cheese 
that  is  still  in  a  fair  state  of  preservation.  It 
had  been  buried  seventeen  hundred  years  when 
they  found  it;  and  if  only  it  had  been  permitted 
to  remain  buried  a  few  years  longer  it  would 
have  been  sufficiently  ripe  to  satisfy  a  Bavarian, 
I  think. 

Grimmer  exhibits  are  displayed  in  cases 
stretched  along  the  center  of  the  main  hall — 
models  of  dead  bodies  discovered  in  the  ruins 
and  perfectly  restored  by  pouring  a  bronze 
composition  into  the  molds  that  were  left  in 
[4111 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  hardened  pumice  after  the  flesh  of  these 
victims  had  turned  to  dust  and  their  bones  had 
crumbled  to  powder.  Huddled  together  are  the 
forms  of  a  mother  and  a  babe;  and  you  see  how, 
with  her  last  conscious  thought,  the  mother 
tried  to  cover  her  baby's  face  from  the  killing 
rain  of  dust  and  blistering  ashes.  And  there  is 
the  shape  of  a  man  who  wrapped  his  face  in  a 
veil  to  keep  out  the  fumes,  and  died  so.  The 
veil  is  there,  reproduced  with  a  fidelity  no  sculp- 
tor could  duplicate,  and  through  its  folds  you 
may  behold  the  agony  that  made  his  jaw  to  sag 
and  his  eyes  to  pop  from  their  sockets. 

Nearby  is  a  dog,  which  in  its  last  spasms  of 
pain  and  fright  curled  up  worm  fashion,  and 
buried  its  nose  in  its  forepaws  and  kicked  out 
with  its  crooked  hind  legs.  Plainly  dogs  do  not 
change  their  emotional  natures  with  the  passage 
of  years.  A  dog  died  in  Pompeii  in  79  A.  D. 
after  exactly  the  same  fashion  that  a  dog  might 
die  to-day  in  the  pound  at  Pittsburgh. 

From  here  we  went  on  into  the  city  proper; 
and  it  was  a  whole  city,  set  off  by  itself  and  not 
surrounded  by  those  jarring  modern  incongru- 
ities that  spoil  the  ruins  of  Rome  for  the  person 
who  wishes  to  give  his  fancy  a  slack  rein.  It  is 
all  here,  looking  much  as  it  must  have  looked 
when  Nero  and  Caligula  reigned,  and  much  as 
it  will  still  look  hundreds  of  years  hence,  for  the 
Government  owns  it  now  and  guards  it  and 
protects  it  from  the  hammer  of  the  vandal  and 
the  greed  of  the  casual  collector.  Here  it  is — all 
[412] 


ALL  THE  GUIDES  IN  ROME  FOLLOW  A  REGULAR  ROUTINE   WITH   THE   TOURIST 


STILL    MORE    RUINS 


of  it;  the  tragic  theater  and  the  comic  theater; 
the  basilica;  the  greater  forum  and  the  lesser 
one;  the  market  place;  the  amphitheater  for  the 
games;  the  training  school  for  the  gladiators; 
the  temples;  the  baths;  the  villas  of  the  rich;  the 
huts  of  the  poor;  the  cubicles  of  the  slaves; 
shops;  offices;  workrooms;  brothels. 

The  roofs  are  gone,  except  in  a  few  instances 
where  they  have  been  restored;  but  the  walls 
stand  and  many  of  the  detached  pillars  stand 
too;  and  the  pavements  have  endured  well,  so 
that  the  streets  remain  almost  exactly  as  they 
were  when  this  was  a  city  of  live  beings  instead 
of  a  tomb  of  dead  memories,  with  deep  groovings 
of  chariot  wheels  in  the  flaggings,  and  at  each 
crossing  there  are  stepping  stones,  dotting  the 
roadbed  like  punctuation  marks.  At  the  public 
fountain  the  well  curbs  are  worn  away  where 
the  women  rested  their  water  jugs  while  they 
swapped  the  gossip  of  the  town;  and  at  nearly 
every  corner  is  a  groggery,  which  in  its  appoint- 
ments and  fixtures  is  so  amazingly  like  unto  a 
family  liquor  store  as  we  know  it  that,  venturing 
into  one,  I  caught  myself  looking  about  for  the 
Business  Men's  Lunch,  with  a  collection  of 
greasy  forks  in  a  glass  receptacle,  a  crock  of 
pretzels  on  the  counter,  and  a  sign  over  the  bar 
reading:  No  Checks  Cashed — This  Means  You! 

In   the    floors    the  mosaics  are  as  fresh  as 

though  newly  applied;  and  the  ribald  and  libel- 

ous  Latin,  which  disappointed  litigants  carved 

on  the  stones  at  the  back  of  the  law  court,  looks 

[415] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


as  though  it  might  have  been  scored  there  last 
week — certainly  not  further  back  than  the  week 
before  that.  A  great  many  of  the  wall  paintings 
in  the  interiors  of  rich  men's  homes  have  been 
preserved  and  some  of  them  are  fairly  spicy  as 
to  subject  and  text.  It  would  seem  that  in 
these  matters  the  ancient  Pompeiians  were 
pretty  nearly  as  broad-minded  and  liberal  as  the 
modern  Parisians  are.  The  mural  decorations 
I  saw  in  certain  villas  were  almost  suggestive 
enough  to  be  acceptable  matter  for  publication 
in  a  French  comic  paper;  almost,  but  not  quite. 
Mr.  Anthony  Comstock  would  be  an  unhappy 
man  were  he  turned  loose  in  Pompeii — unhappy 
for  a  spell,  but  after  that  exceedingly  busy. 

We  lingered  on,  looking  and  marveling,  and 
betweenwhiles  wondering  whether  our  automo- 
bile's hacking  cough  had  got  any  better  by  resting, 
until  the  sun  went  down  and  the  twilight  came. 
Following  the  guidebook's  advice  we  had  seen 
the  Colosseum  in  Rome  by  moonlight.  There 
was  a  full  moon  on  the  night  we  went  there.  It 
came  heaving  up  grandly,  a  great,  round-faced, 
full-cream,  curdy  moon,  rich  with  rennet  and 
yellow  with  butter  fats;  but  by  the  time  we  had 
worked  our  way  south  to  Naples  a  greedy  fort- 
night had  bitten  it  quite  away,  until  it  was  re- 
duced to  a  mere  cheese  rind  of  a  moon,  set  up 
on  end  against  the  delft- blue  platter  of  a  perfect 
sky.  We  waited  until  it  showed  its  thin  rim  in 
the  heavens,  and  then,  in  the  softened  half -glow, 
with  the  purplish  shadows  deepening  between 
[416] 


STILL    MORE    RUINS 


the  brown-gray  walls  of  the  dead  city,  I  just 
naturally  turned  my  imagination  loose  and  let 
her  soar. 

Standing  there,  with  the  stage  set  and  the 
light  effects  just  right,  in  fancy  I  repopulated 
Pompeii.  I  beheld  it  just  as  it  was  on  a  fair, 
autumnal  morning  in  79  A.  D.  With  my  eyes 
half  closed,  I  can  see  the  vision  now.  At  first 
the  crowds  are  massed  and  mingled  in  con- 
fusion, but  soon  figures  detach  themselves  from 
the  rest  and  reveal  themselves  as  prominent  per- 
sonages. Some  of  them  I  know  at  a  glance. 
Yon  tall,  imposing  man,  with  the  genuine  imita- 
tion sealskin  collar  on  his  toga,  who  strides  along 
so  majestically,  whisking  his  cane  against  his 
leg,  can  be  no  other  than  Gum  Tragacanth, 
leading  man  of  the  Bon  Ton  Stock  Company, 
fresh  from  his  metropolitan  triumphs  in  Rome 
and  at  this  moment  the  reigning  matinee  idol 
of  the  South.  This  week  he  is  playing  Claude 
Melnotte  in  The  Lady  of  Lyons;  next  week  he 
will  be  seen  in  his  celebrated  characterization  of 
Matthias  in  The  Bells,  with  special  scenery ;  and 
for  the  regular  Wednesday  and  Saturday  bar- 
gain matinees  Lady  Audley's  Secret  will  be 
given. 

Observe  him  closely.  It  is  evident  that  he 
values  his  art.  Yet  about  him  there  is  no  false 
ostentation.  With  what  gracious  condescension 
does  he  acknowledge  the  half -timid,  half -daring 
smiles  of  all  the  little  caramel-chewing  Floras 
and  Faunas  who  have  made  it  a  point  to  be  on 
[417] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


Main  Street  at  this  hour!  With  what  careless 
grace  does  he  doff  his  laurel  wreath,  which  is 
of  the  latest  and  most  modish  fall  block,  with 
the  bow  at  the  back,  in  response  to  the  waved 
greeting  of  Mrs.  Belladonna  Capsicum,  the 
acknowledged  leader  of  the  artistic  and  Bohe- 
mian set,  as  she  sweeps  by  in  her  chariot  bound 
for  Blumberg  Brothers'  to  do  a  little  shopping. 
She  is  not  going  to  buy  anything — she  is  merely 
out  shopping. 

Than  this  fair  patrician  dame,  none  is  more 
prominent  in  the  gay  life  of  Pompeii.  It  was 
she  who  last  season  smoked  a  cigarette  in  public, 
and  there  is  a  report  now  that  she  is  seriously 
considering  wearing  an  ankle  bracelet;  withal 
she  is  a  perfect  lady  and  belongs  to  one  of  the 
old  Southern  families.  Her  husband  has  been 
through  the  bankruptcy  courts  twice  and  is 
thinking  of  going  through  again.  At  present  he 
is  engaged  in  promoting  and  writing  a  little  life 
insurance  on  the  side. 

Now  her  equipage  is  lost  in  the  throng  and 
the  great  actor  continues  on  his  way,  making  a 
mental  note  of  the  fact  that  he  has  promised  to 
attend  her  next  Sunday  afternoon  studio  tea. 
Near  his  own  stage  door  he  bumps  into  Com- 
modious Rotunda,  the  stout  comedian  of  the 
comic  theater,  and  they  pause  to  swap  the  latest 
Lambs'  Club  repartee.  This  done,  Commodius 
hauls  out  a  press  clipping  and  would  read  it, 
but  the  other  remembers  providentially  that  he 
has  a  rehearshal  on  and  hurriedly  departs.  If 
[4181 


STILL    MORE    RUNS 


there  are  any  press  clippings  to  be  read  he  has 
a  few  of  his  own  that  will  bear  inspection. 

Superior  Maxillary,  managing  editor  of  the 
Pompeiian  Daily  News-Courier,  is  also  abroad, 
collecting  items  of  interest  and  subscriptions  for 
his  paper,  with  preference  given  to  the  latter. 
He  enters  the  Last  Chance  Saloon  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  street  and  in  a  minute  or  two  is  out 
again,  wiping  his  mustache  on  the  back  of  his 
hand.  We  may  safely  opine  that  he  has  been 
taking  a  small  ad.  out  in  trade. 

At  the  door  of  the  county  courthouse,  where 
he  may  intercept  the  taxpayers  as  they  come  and 
go,  is  stationed  our  old  friend,  Colonel  Pro  Bono 
Publico.  The  Colonel  has  been  running  for 
something  or  other  ever  since  Heck  was  a  pup. 
To-day  he  is  wearing  his  official  campaign  smile, 
for  he  is  a  candidate  for  county  judge,  subject 
to  the  action  of  the  Republican  party  at  the 
October  primaries.  He  is  wearing  all  his  lodge 
buttons  and  likewise  his  G.  A.  R.  pin,  for  this 
year  he  figures  on  carrying  the  old-soldier 
vote. 

See  who  comes  now!  It  is  Rigor  Mortis,  the 
worthy  coroner.  At  sight  of  him  the  Colonel 
uplifts  his  voice  in  hoarsely  jovial  salutation: 

"Rigsy,  my  boy,"  he  booms,  "how  are  you? 
And  how  is  Mrs.  M.  this  morning?" 

"Well,    Colonel,"   answers   his   friend,    "my 
wife  ain't  no  better.     She's  mighty  puny  and 
complaining.     Sometimes  I  get  to  wishing  the 
old  lady  would  get  well — or  something!" 
[419] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


The  Colonel  laughs,  but  not  loudly.  That 
wheeze  was  old  in  79. 

In  front  of  the  drug-store  on  the  corner  a 
score  of  young  bloods,  dressed  in  snappy  togas 
for  Varsity  men,  are  skylarking.  They  are  es- 
pecially brilliant  in  their  flashing  interchanges 
of  wit  and  humor,  because  the  Mastodon  Min- 
strels were  here  only  last  week,  with  a  new  line 
of  first-part  jokes.  Along  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street  passes  Nux  Vomica,  M.D.,  with  a  small 
black  case  in  his  hand,  gravely  intent  on  his 
professional  duties.  Being  a  young  physician, 
he  wears  a  beard  and  large-rimmed  eyeglasses. 
Young  Ossius  Dome  sees  him  and  hails  him. 

"Oh,  Doc!"  he  calls  out.  "Come  over  here 
a  minute.  I've  got  some  brand-new  limerickii 
for  you.  Tertiary  Tonsillitis  got  'em  from  a 
traveling  man  he  met  day  before  yesterday 
when  he  was  up  in  the  city  laying  in  his  stock 
of  fall  and  winter  armor." 

The  healer  of  ills  crosses  over;  and  as  the 
group  push  themselves  in  toward  a  common  cen- 
ter I  hear  the  voice  of  the  speaker: 

"Say,  they're  all  bully;  but  this  is  the  bullis- 
simus  one  of  the  lot.  It  goes  like  this: 

: '  There  was  a  young  maid  of  Sorrento, 
Who  said  to  her ' " 

I  have  regretted  ever  since  that  at  this  junc- 
ture I  came  to  and  so  failed  to  get  the  rest  of  it. 
I'll   bet  that  was  a  peach  of  a  limerick.     It 
started  off  so  promisingly. 
[420] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
MUCKRAKING  IN  OLD  POMPEII 


IT  now  devolves  on  me   as   a   painful    yet 
necessary  duty  to  topple  from  its  pedestal 
one  of  the  most  popular  idols  of  legendary 
lore.    I  refer,  I  regret  to  say,  to  the  widely 
famous  Roman  sentry  of  old  Pompeii. 

Personally  I  think  there  has  been  entirely  too 
much  of  this  sort  of  thing  going  on  lately.  Muck- 
rakers,  prying  into  the  storied  past,  have  de- 
stroyed one  after  another  many  of  the  pet 
characters  in  history.  Thanks  to  their  meddle- 
some activities  we  know  that  Paul  Revere  did 
not  take  any  midnight  ride.  On  the  night  in 
question  he  was  laid  up  in  bed  with  inflam- 
matory rheumatism.  What  happened  was  that 
he  told  the  news  to  Mrs.  Revere  as  a  secret,  and 
she  in  strict  confidence  imparted  it  to  the  lady 
living  next  door;  and  from  that  point  on  the 
word  traveled  with  the  rapidity  of  wildfire. 

Horatius  never  held  the  bridge;  he  just  let  the 
blamed  thing  go.    The  boy  did  not  stand  on  the 
burning  deck,  whence  all  but  him  had  fled;  he 
[421] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


was  among  the  first  in  the  lifeboats.  That  other 
boy — the  Spartan  youth — did  not  have  his  vitals 
gnawed  by  a  fox;  the  Spartan  youth  had  been 
eating  wild  grapes  and  washing  them  down 
with  spring  water.  Hence  that  gnawing  sen- 
sation of  which  so  much  mention  has  been 
made.  Nobody  hit  Billy  Patterson.  He  ac- 
quired his  brack  eye  in  the  same  way  in  which 
all  married  men  acquire  a  black  eye — by  run- 
ning against  a  door  jamb  while  trying  to  find 
the  ice-water  pitcher  in  the  dark.  He  said  so 
himself  the  next  day. 

Even  Barbara  Frietchie  is  an  exploded  myth. 
She  did  not  nail  her  country's  flag  to  the  window 
casement.  Being  a  female,  she  could  not  nail  a 
flag  or  anything  else  to  a  window.  In  the  first 
place,  she  would  have  used  a  wad  of  chewing 
gum  and  a  couple  of  hairpins.  In  the  second 
place,  had  she  recklessly  undertaken  to  nail  up 
a  flag  with  hammer  and  nails,  she  would  never 
have  been  on  hand  at  the  psychological  moment 
to  invite  Stonewall  Jackson  to  shoot  her  old 
gray  head.  When  General  Jackson  passed  the 
house  she  would  have  been  in  the  bathroom 
bathing  her  left  thumb  in  witch-hazel. 

Furthermore,  she  did  not  have  any  old  gray 
head.  At  the  time  of  the  Confederate  invasion 
of  Maryland  she  was  only  seventeen  years  old 
— some  authorities  say  only  seven — and  a  pro- 
nounced blonde.  Also,  she  did  not  live  in 
Frederick;  and  even  if  she  did  live  there,  on  the 
occasion  when  the  troops  went  through  she  was 
[422] 


SHE  IS  NOT  GOING  TO  BUY  ANYTHING SHE  IS  MERELY  OUT  SHOPPING 


MUCKRAKING    IN    OLD    POMPEII 

in  Baltimore  visiting  a  school  friend.  Finally, 
Frederick  does  not  stand  where  it  stood  in  the 
sixties.  The  cyclone  of  1884  moved  it  three 
miles  back  into  the  country  and  twisted  the 
streets  round  in  such  a  manner  as  to  confuse 
even  lifelong  residents.  These  facts  have  re- 
peatedly been  proved  by  volunteer  investigators 
and  are  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

I  repeat  that  there  has  been  too  much  of  this. 
If  the  craze  for  smashing  all  our  romantic  fix- 
tures persists,  after  a  while  we  shall  have  no 
glorious  traditions  left  with  which  to  fire  the 
youthful  heart  at  high-school  commencements. 
But  in  the  interests  of  truth,  and  also  because  I 
made  the  discovery  myself,  I  feel  it  to  be  my 
solemn  duty  to  expose  the  Roman  sentry,  sta- 
tioned at  the  gate  of  Pompeii  looking  toward 
the  sea,  who  died  because  he  would  not  quit  his 
post  without  orders  and  had  no  orders  to  quit. 

Until  now  this  party  has  stood  the  acid  test 
of  centuries.  Everybody  who  ever  wrote  about 
the  fall  of  Pompeii,  from  Plutarch  and  Pliny  the 
Younger  clear  down  to  Bulwer  Lytton  and  Bur- 
ton Holmes,  had  something  to  say  about  him. 
The  lines  on  this  subject  by  the  Greek  poet 
Laryngitis  are  familiar  to  all  lovers  of  that  great 
master  of  classic  verse,  and  I  shall  not  undertake 
to  quote  from  them  here. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  Roman  sentry,  per- 
ishing at  his  post,  has  ever  been  a  favorite 
subject  for  historic  and  romantic  writers.  I 
myself  often  read  of  him — how  on  that  dread 
[425] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


day  when  the  devil's  stew  came  to  a  boil  and 
spewed  over  the  sides  of  Vesuvius,  and  death 
and  destruction  poured  down  to  blight  the  land, 
he,  typifying  fortitude  and  discipline  and  un- 
faltering devotion,  stood  firm  and  stayed  fast 
while  all  about  him  chaos  reigned  and  fathers 
forgot  their  children  and  husbands  forgot  their 
wives,  and  vice  versa,  though  probably  not  to 
the  same  extent;  and  how  finally  the  drifting 
ashes  and  the  choking  dust  fell  thicker  upon 
him  and  mounted  higher  about  him,  until  he 
died  and  in  time  turned  to  ashes  himself,  leaving 
only  a  void  in  the  solidified  slag.  I  had  always 
admired  that  soldier — not  his  judgment,  which 
was  faulty,  but  his  heroism,  which  was  immense. 
To  myself  I  used  to  say: 

"That  unknown  common  soldier,  nameless 
though  he  was,  deserves  to  live  forever  in  the 
memory  of  mankind.  He  lacked  imagination, 
it  is  true,  but  he  was  game.  It  was  a  glorious 
death  to  die — painful,  yet  splendid.  Those  four 
poor  wretches  whose  shells  were  found  in  the 
prison  under  the  gladiators'  school,  with  their 
ankles  fast  in  the  iron  stocks — I  know  why  they 
stayed.  Their  feet  were  too  large  for  their  own 
good.  But  no  bonds  except  his  dauntless  will 
bound  him  at  the  portals  of  the  doomed  city. 
Duty  was  the  only  chain  that  held  him. 

"And  to  think  that  centuries  and  centuries 

afterward  they  should  find  his  monument — a 

vacant,  empty  mold  in  the  piled-up  pumice! 

Had  I  been  in  his  place  I  should  have  created 

[4261 


MUCKRAKING    IN    OLD    POMPEII 

my  vacancy  much  sooner — say,  about  thirty 
seconds  after  the  first  alarm  went  in.  But  he 
was  one  who  chose  rather  that  men  should  say, 
'How  natural  he  looks!'  than  'Yonder  he  goes!' 
And  he  has  my  sincere  admiration.  When  I  go 
to  Pompeii — if  ever  I  do  go  there — I  shall  seek 
out  the  spot  where  he  made  the  supremest  sac- 
rifice to  authority  that  ever  any  man  could 
make,  and  I  shall  tarry  a  while  in  those  hallowed 
precincts!" 

That  was  what  I  said  I  would  do  and  that  was 
what  I  did  do  that  afternoon  at  Pompeii.  I 
found  the  gate  looking  toward  the  sea  and  I 
found  all  the  other  gates,  or  the  sites  of  them; 
but  I  did  not  find  the  Roman  sentry  nor  any 
trace  of  him,  nor  any  authentic  record  of  him. 
I  questioned  the  guides  and,  through  an  inter- 
preter, the  curator  of  the  Museum,  and  from 
them  I  learned  the  lamentably  disillusioning 
facts  in  this  case.  There  is  no  trace  of  him  be- 
cause he  neglected  to  leave  any  trace. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  sentry  on  guard  at  the 
gate  when  the  volcano  belched  forth,  and  the 
skin  of  the  earth  flinched  and  shivered  and  split 
asunder;  but  he  did  not  remain  for  the  finish. 
He  said  to  himself  that  this  was  no  place  for  a 
minister's  son;  and  so  he  girded  up  his  loins 
and  he  went  away  from  there. 

He  went  away  hurriedly — even  as  you  and  I. 


[427] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 


WHEREVER  we  went  I  was  constantly 
on  the  outlook  for  a  kind  of  tourist 
who  had  been  described  to  me  fre- 
quently and  at  great  length  by  more 
seasoned  travelers — the  kind  who  wore  his 
country's  flag  as  a  buttonhole  emblem,  or  as  a 
shirtfront  decoration;  and  regarded  every  gath- 
ering and  every  halting  place  as  providing 
suitable  opportunity  to  state  for  the  benefit 
of  all  who  might  be  concerned,  how  immensely 
and  overpoweringly  superior  in  all  particulars 
was  the  land  from  which  he  hailed  as  compared 
with  all  other  lands  under  the  sun.  I  desired 
most  earnestly  to  overhaul  a  typical  example  of 
this  species,  my  intention  then  being  to  decoy 
him  off  to  some  quiet  and  secluded  spot  and 
there  destroy  him  in  the  hope  of  cutting  down 
the  breed. 

At  length,  along  toward  the  fag  end  of  our 
zigzagging  course,  I  caught  up  with  him;  but 
stayed  my  hand  and  slew  not.    For  some  coun- 
[428] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


tries,  you  understand,  are  so  finicky  in  the  matter 
of  protecting  their  citizens  that  they  would  pro- 
tect even  such  a  one  as  this.  I  was  fearful  lest, 
by  exterminating  the  object  of  my  homicidal 
desires,  I  should  bring  on  international  compli- 
cations with  a  friendly  Power,  no  matter  how- 
ever public-spirited  and  high-minded  my  inten- 
tions might  be. 

It  was  in  Vienna,  in  a  cafe,  and  the  hour  was 
late.  We  were  just  leaving,  after  having  listened 
for  some  hours  to  a  Hungarian  band  playing 
waltz  tunes  and  an  assemblage  of  natives  drink- 
ing beer,  when  the  sounds  of  a  dispute  at  the 
booth  where  wraps  were  checked  turned  our 
faces  in  that  direction.  In  a  thick  and  plushy 
voice  a  short  square  person  of  a  highly  vulgar 
aspect  was  arguing  with  the  young  woman  who 
had  charge  of  the  check  room.  Judging  by  his 
tones,  you  would  have  said  that  the  nap  of  his 
tongue  was  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long; 
and  he  punctuated  his  remarks  with  hiccoughs. 
It  seemed  that  his  excitement  had  to  do  with 
the  disappearance  of  a  neck-muffler.  From 
argument  he  progressed  rapidly  to  threats  and 
the  pounding  of  a  fist  upon  the  counter. 

Drawing  nigh,  I  observed  that  he  wore  a  very- 
high  hat  and  a  very  short  sack  coat;  that  his 
waistcoat  was  of  a  combustible  plaid  pattern 
with  gaiters  to  match;  that  he  had  taken  his 
fingers  many  times  to  the  jeweler,  but  not  once 
to  the  manicure;  that  he  was  beautifully  jingled 
and  alcoholically  boastful  of  his  native  land  and 
[429] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


that — a  crowning  touch — he  wore  flaring  from 
an  upper  pocket  of  his  coat  a  silk  handkerchief 
woven  in  the  design  and  colors  of  his  country's 
flag.  But,  praises  be,  it  was  not  our  flag  that 
he  wore  thus.  It  was  the  Union  Jack.  As  we 
passed  out  into  the  damp  Viennese  midnight  he 
was  loudly  proclaiming  that  he  "Was'h  Bri'sh 
subjesch,"  and  that  unless  something  was  done 
mighty  quick,  would  complain  to  "  'Is  Majeshy's 
rep(hic)shenativ'  ver'  firsch  thing  'n  morn'." 

So  though  I  was  sorry  he  was  a  cousin,  I  was 
selfishly  and  unfeignedly  glad  that  he  was  not 
a  brother.  Since  in  the  mysterious  and  un- 
fathomable scheme  of  creation  it  seemed  neces- 
sary that  he  should  be  born  somewhere,  still  he 
had  not  been  born  in  America,  and  that  thought 
was  very  pleasing  to  me. 

There  was  another  variety  of  the  tourist 
breed  whose  trail  I  most  earnestly  desired  to 
cross.  I  refer  to  the  creature  who  must  be 
closely  watched  to  prevent  him,  or  her,  from 
carrying  off  valuable  relics  as  souvenirs,  and 
defacing  monuments  and  statues  and  disfigur- 
ing holy  places  with  an  inconsequential  signa- 
ture. In  the  flesh — and  such  a  person  must  be 
all  flesh  and  no  soul — I  never  caught  up  with 
him,  but  more  than  once  I  came  upon  his  fresh 
spoor. 

In  Venice  our  guide  took  us  to  see  the  nether 

prisons  of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges.     From  the 

level  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  we  tramped  down 

flights  of  stone  stairs,  one  flight  after  another, 

[430] 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 


until  we  had  passed  the  hole  through  which  the 
bodies  of  state  prisoners,  secretly  killed  at  night, 
were  shoved  out  into  waiting  gondolas  and  had 
passed  also  the  room  where  pincers  and  thumb- 
screw once  did  their  hideous  work,  until  we 
came  to  a  cellar  of  innermost,  deepermost  cells, 
fashioned  out  of  the  solid  rock  and  stretching 
along  a  corridor  that  was  almost  as  dark  as  the 
cells  themselves.  Here,  so  we  were  told,  count- 
less wretched  beings,  awaiting  the  tardy  pleasure 
of  the  torturer  or  the  headsman,  had  moldered  in 
damp  and  filth  and  pitchy  blackness,  knowing 
day  from  night  only  by  the  fact  that  once  in 
twenty-four  hours  food  would  be  slipped  through 
a  hole  in  the  wall  by  unseen  hands;  lying  here 
until  oftentimes  death  or  the  cruel  mercy  of 
madness  came  upon  them  before  the  overworked 
executioner  found  time  to  rack  their  limbs  or 
lop  off  their  heads. 

We  were  told  that  two  of  these  cells  had  been 
preserved  exactly  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
the  Doges,  with  no  alteration  except  that  lights 
had  been  swung  from  the  ceilings.  We  could 
well  accept  this  statement  as  the  truth,  for  when 
the  guide  led  us  through  a  low  doorway  and 
flashed  on  an  electric  bulb  we  saw  that  the  place 
where  we  stood  was  round  like  a  jug  and  bare 
as  an  empty  jug,  with  smooth  stone  walls  and 
rough  stone  floor;  and  that  it  contained  for 
furniture  just  two  things — a  stone  bench  upon 
which  the  captive  might  lie  or  sit  and,  let  into 
the  wall,  a  great  iron  ring,  to  which  his  chains 
[4311 


EUROPE    REVISED 


were  made  fast  so  that  he  moved  always  to  their 
grating  accompaniment  and  the  guard  listening 
outside  might  know  by  the  telltale  clanking 
whether  the  entombed  man  still  lived. 

There  was  one  other  decoration  in  this  hole 
— a  thing  more  incongruous  even  than  the  modern 
lighting  fixtures;  and  this  stood  out  in  bold  black 
lettering  upon  the  low-sloped  ceiling.  A  pair  of 
vandals,  a  man  and  wife — no  doubt  with  infinite 
pains — had  smuggled  in  brush  and  marking  pot 
and  somehow  or  other — I  suspect  by  bribing 
guides  and  guards — had  found  the  coveted  op- 
portunity of  inscribing  their  names  here  in  the 
Doges'  black  dungeon.  With  their  names  they 
had  written  their  address  too,  which  was  a  small 
town  in  the  Northwest,  and  after  it  the  legend : 
"Send  us  a  postal  card." 

I  imagine  that  then  this  couple,  having  ac- 
complished this  feat,  regarded  their  trip  to 
Europe  as  being  rounded  out  and  complete,  and 
went  home  again,  satisfied  and  rejoicing.  Send 
them  a  postal  card?  Somebody  should  send 
them  a  deep-dish  poison-pie! 

Looking  on  this  desecration  my  companion 
and  I  grew  vocal.  We  agreed  that  our  national 
lawgivers  who  were  even  then  framing  an  im- 
migration law  with  a  view  to  keeping  certain 
people  out  of  this  country,  might  better  be  en- 
gaged in  framing  one  with  a  view  to  keeping 
certain  people  in.  Our  guide  barkened  with  a 
quiet  little  smile  on  his  face  to  what  we  said. 

"It  cannot  have  been  here  long — that  writing 
[4321 


I  DID  A  GOOD  DEAL  OF  RECLINING,  COMING  BACK 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


on  the  ceiling,"  he  explained  for  our  benefit. 
"Presently  it  will  be  scraped  away.  But" — 
and  he  shrugged  his  eloquent  Italian  shoulders 
and  outspread  his  hands  fan-fashion — "but  what 
is  the  use?  Others  like  them  will  come  and  do 
as  they  have  done.  See  here  and  here  and  here, 
if  you  please!" 

He  aimed  a  darting  forefinger  this  way  and 
that,  and  looking  where  he  pointed  we  saw  now 
how  the  walls  were  scarred  with  the  scribbled 
names  of  many  visitors.  I  regret  exceedingly 
to  have  to  report  that  a  majority  of  these  names 
had  an  American  sound  to  them.  Indeed,  many 
of  the  signatures  were  coupled  with  the  names  of 
towns  and  states  of  the  Union.  There  were  quite 
a  few  from  Canada,  too.  What,  I  ask  you,  is 
the  wisdom  of  taking  steps  to  discourage  the  cut- 
worm and  abate  the  gypsy -moth  when  our  gov- 
ernment permits  these  two-legged  varmints  to 
go  abroad  freely  and  pollute  shrines  and  wonder- 
places  with  their  scratchings,  and  give  the 
nations  over  there  a  perverted  notion  of  what 
the  real  human  beings  on  this  continent  are  like? 

For  the  tourist  who  has  wearied  of  picture 
galleries  and  battlegrounds  ana  ruins  and  ab- 
beys, studying  other  tourists  provides  a  pleasant 
way  of  passing  many  an  otherwise  tedious  hour. 
Certain  of  the  European  countries  furnish  some 
interesting  types — notably  Britain,  which  pro- 
ducing a  male  biped  of  a  lachrymose  and  cheer- 
less exterior,  who  plods  solemnly  across  the  Con- 
tinent wrapped  in  the  plaid  mantle  of  his  own 
[435] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


dignity,  never  speaking  an  unnecessary  word  to 
any  person  whatsoever.  And  Germany:  From 
Germany  comes  a  stolid  gentleman,  who,  usually, 
is  shaped  like  a  pickle  mounted  on  legs  and  is  so 
extensively  and  convexedly  eyeglassed  as  to 
give  him  the  appearance  of  something  that  is 
about  to  be  served  sous  cloche.  Caparisoned  in 
strange  garments,  he  stalks  through  France  or 
Italy  with  an  umbrella  under  his  arm,  his  nose 
being  buried  so  deeply  in  his  guidebook  that  he 
has  no  time  to  waste  upon  the  scenery  or  the 
people;  while  some  ten  paces  in  the  rear,  his 
wife  staggers  along  in  his  wake  with  her  skirts 
dragging  in  the  dust  and  her  arms  pulled  half 
out  of  their  sockets  by  the  weight  of  the  heavy 
bundles  and  bags  she  is  bearing.  This  person, 
when  traveling,  always  takes  his  wife  and  much 
baggage  with  him.  Or,  rather,  he  takes  his  wife 
and  she  takes  the  baggage  which,  by  Continental 
standards,  is  regarded  as  an  equal  division  of 
burdens. 

However,  for  variety  and  individual  pecul- 
iarity, our  own  land  offers  the  largest  assortment 
in  the  tourist  line,  this  perhaps  being  due  to  the 
fact  that  Americans  do  more  traveling  than  any 
other  race.  I  think  that  in  our  ramblings  we 
must  have  encountered  pretty  nearly  all  the 
known  species  of  tourists,  ranging  from  sane  and 
sensible  persons  who  had  come  to  Europe  to 
see  and  to  learn  and  to  study,  clear  on  down 
through  various  ramifications  to  those  who  had 
left  their  homes  and  firesides  to  be  uncomfortable 
[436] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


and  unhappy  in  far  lands  merely  because  some- 
body told  them  they  ought  to  travel  abroad. 
They  were  in  Europe  for  the  reason  that  so  many 
people  run  to  a  fire:  not  because  they  care  partic- 
ularly for  a  fire  but  because  so  many  others  are 
running  to  it.  I  would  that  I  had  the  time,  and 
you,  kind  reader,  the  patience  so  that  I  might 
enumerate  and  describe  in  full  detail  all  the 
varieties  and  sub-varieties  of  our  race  that  we 
saw — the  pert,  overfed,  overpampered  children, 
the  aggressive,  self-sufficient,  prematurely  bored 
young  girls,  the  money-fattened,  boastful  vul- 
garians, scattering  coin  by  the  handful,  intent 
only  on  making  a  show  and  not  realizing  that 
they  themselves  were  the  show;  the  coltish, 
pimply  youths  who  thought  in  order  to  be  high- 
spirited  they  must  also  be  impolite  and  noisy. 
Youth  will  be  served,  but  why,  I  ask  you — why 
must  it  so  often  be  served  raw?  For  contrasts 
to  such  as  these,  we  met  plenty  of  people  worth 
meeting  and  worth  knowing — fine,  attractive, 
well-bred  American  men  and  women,  having  a 
decent  regard  for  themselves  and  for  other  folks, 
too.  Indeed  this  sort  largely  predominated. 
But  there  isn't  space  for  making  a  classified  list. 
The  one-volume  chronicler  must  content  him- 
self with  picking  out  a  few  particularly  striking 
types. 

I  remember,  with  vivid  distinctness,  two  in- 
dividuals, one  an  elderly  gentleman  from  some- 
where in  the  Middle  West  and  the  other,  an  old 
lady  who  plainly  hailed  from  the  South.     We 
[437] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


met  the  old  gentleman  in  Paris,  and  the  old 
lady  some  weeks  later  in  Naples.  Though  the 
weather  was  moderately  warm  in  Paris  that 
week  he  wore  red  woolen  wristlets  down  over 
his  hands;  and  he  wore  also  celluloid  cuffs, 
which  rattled  musically,  with  very  large  moss 
agate  buttons  in  them;  and  for  ornamentation 
his  watch  chain  bore  a  flat  watch  key,  a  secret 
order  badge  big  enough  to  serve  as  a  hitching 
weight  and  a  peach-stone  carved  to  look  like  a 
fruit  basket.  Everything  about  him  suggested 
health  underwear,  chewing  tobacco  and  fried 
mush  for  breakfast.  His  whiskers  were  cut  after 
a  pattern  I  had  not  seen  in  years  and  years. 
In  my  mind  such  whiskers  were  associated  with 
those  happy  and  long  distant  days  of  childhood 
when  we  yelled  Supe!  at  a  stagehand  and  cher- 
ished Old  Cap  Collier  as  a  model  of  what — if 
we  had  luck — we  would  be  when  we  grew  up. 
By  rights,  he  belonged  in  the  second  act  of  a 
rural  Indian  play,  of  a  generation  or  two  ago; 
but  here  he  was,  wandering  disconsolately 
through  the  Louvre.  He  had  come  over  to 
spend  four  months,  he  told  us  with  a  heave  of 
the  breath,  and  he  still  had  two  months  of  it 
unspent,  and  he  just  didn't  see  how  he  was 
going  to  live  through  it! 

The  old  lady  was  in  the  great  National  Mu- 
seum at  Naples,  fluttering  about  like  a  distracted 
little  brown  hen.  She  was  looking  for  the  Far- 
nese  Bull.  It  seemed  her  niece  in  Knoxville  had 
told  her  the  Farnese  Bull  was  the  finest  thing 
[438] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


in  the  statuary  line  to  be  found  in  all  Italy,  and 
until  she  had  seen  that,  she  wasn't  going  to  see 
anything  else.  She  had  got  herself  separated 
from  the  rest  of  her  party  and  she  was  wander- 
ing along  about  alone,  seeking  information  re- 
garding the  whereabouts  of  the  Farnese  Bull 
from  smiling  but  uncomprehending  custodians 
and  doorkeepers.  These  persons  she  would  ad- 
dress at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Plainly  she 
suffered  from  a  delusion,  which  is  very  common 
among  our  people,  that  if  a  foreigner  does  not 
understand  you  when  addressed  in  an  ordinary 
tone,  he  will  surely  get  your  meaning  if  you 
screech  at  him.  When  we  had  gone  some  dis- 
tance farther  on  and  were  in  another  gallery, 
we  could  still  catch  the  calliope-like  notes  of 
the  little  old  lady,  as  she  besought  some  one  to 
lead  her  to  the  Farnese  Bull. 

That  she  came  right  out  and  spoke  of  the 
Farnese  Bull  as  a  bull,  instead  of  referring  to 
him  as  a  gentleman  cow,  was  evidence  of  the 
extent  to  which  travel  had  enlarged  her  vision, 
for  with  half  an  eye  anyone  could  tell  that  she 
belonged  to  the  period  of  our  social  development 
when  certain  honest  and  innocent  words  were 
supposed  to  be  indelicate — that  she  had  been 
reared  in  a  society-  whose  ideal  of  a  perfect  lady 
was  one  who  could  say  limb,  without  thinking 
leg.  I  hope  she  found  her  bull,  but  I  imagine 
she  was  disappointed  when  she  did  find  it.  I 
know  I  was.  The  sculpturing  may  be  of  a  very 
high  order — the  authorities  agree  that  it  is — 
[4391 


EUROPE    REVISED 


but  I  judge  the  two  artists  to  whom  the  group 
is  attributed  carved  the  bull  last  and  ran  out 
of  material  and  so  skimped  him  a  bit.  The 
unfortunate  Dirce,  who  is  about  to  be  bound  to 
his  horns  by  the  sons  of  Antiope,  the  latter 
standing  by  to  see  that  the  boys  make  a  good 
thorough  job  of  it,  is  larger  really  than  the  bull. 
You  can  picture  the  lady  carrying  off  the  bull 
but  not  the  bull  carrying  off  the  lady. 

Numerously  encountered  are  the  tourists  who 
are  doing  Europe  under  a  time  limit  as  exact  as 
the  schedule  of  a  limited  train.  They  go  through 
Europe  on  the  dead  run,  being  intent  on  seeing 
it  all  and  therefore  seeing  none  of  it.  They 
cover  ten  countries  in  a  space  of  time  which  a 
sane  person  gives  to  one;  after  which  they  re- 
turn home  exhausted,  but  triumphant.  I  think 
it  must  be  months  before  some  of  them  quit 
panting,  and  certainly  their  poor,  misused  feet 
can  never  again  be  the  feet  they  were. 

With  them  adherence  to  the  time  card  is 
everything.  If  a  look  at  the  calendar  shows 
the  day  to  be  Monday,  they  know  they  are  in 
Munich,  and  as  they  lope  along  they  get  out 
their  guidebooks  and  study  the  chapters  de- 
voted to  Munich.  But  if  it  be  Tuesday,  then 
it  is  Dresden,  and  they  give  their  attention  to 
literature  dealing  with  the  attractions  of  Dres- 
den; seeing  Dresden  after  the  fashion  of  one 
sitting  before  a  runaway  moving  picture  film. 

Then  they  pack  up  and  depart,  galloping,  for 
Prague  with  their  tongues  hanging  out.  For 
[4401 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


Wednesday  is  Prague  and  Prague  is  Wednesday 
-^the  two  words  are  synonymous  and  inter- 
changeable. Surely  to  such  as  these,  the  places 
they  have  visited  must  mean  as  much  to  them, 
afterward,  as  the  labels  upon  their  trunks  mean 
to  the  trunks — just  flimsy  names  pasted  on,  all 
confused  and  overlapping,  and  certain  to  be 
scraped  off  in  time,  leaving  nothing  but  faint 
marks  upon  an  indurated  surface. 

There  is  yet  again  another  type,  always  of 
the  female  gender  and  generally  middle-aged  and 
very  schoolteacherish  in  aspect,  who,  in  com- 
pany with  a  group  of  kindred  spirits,  is  viewing 
Europe  under  a  contract  arrangement  by  which 
a  worn  and  wearied-looking  gentleman,  a  retired 
clergyman  usually,  acts  as  escort  and  mentor 
for  a  given  price.  I  don't  know  how  much  he 
gets  a  head  for  this  job;  but  whatever  it  is,  he 
earns  it  ninety-and-nine  times  over.  This  lady 
tourist  is  much  given  to  missing  trains  and 
getting  lost  and  having  disputes  with  natives 
and  wearing  rubber  overshoes  and  asking 
strange  questions — but  let  me  illustrate  with  a 
story  I  heard. 

The  man  from  Cook's  had  convoyed  his  party 
through  the  Vatican,  until  he  brought  them  to 
the  Apollo  Belvidere.  As  they  ranged  them- 
selves wearily  about  the  statue,  he  rattled  off 
his  regular  patter  without  pause  or  punctuation : 

"Here  we  have  the  far-famed  Apollo  Belvi- 
dere found  about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century  at  Frascati  purchased  by  Pope  Julius 
•  [  441  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


the  Second  restored  by  the  great  Michelangelo 
taken  away  by  the  French  in  1797  but  returned 
in  1815  made  of  Carara  marble  holding  in  his 
hand  a  portion  of  the  bow  with  which  he  slew 
the  Python  observe  please  the  beauty  of  the 
pose  the  realistic  attitude  of  the  limbs  the  noble 
and  exalted  expression  of  the  face  of  Apollo 
Belvidere  he  being  known  also  as  Phoebus  the 
god  of  oracles  the  god  of  music  and  medicine 
the  son  of  Leto  and  Jupiter 

Here  he  ran  out  of  breath  and  stopped.  For 
a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Then  from  a  flat- 
chested  little  spinster  came  this  query  in  tired 
yet  interested  tones: 

"Was  he — was  he  married?" 

He  who  is  intent  upon  studying  the  effect  of 
foreign  climes  upon  the  American  temperament 
should  by  no  means  overlook  the  colonies  of 
resident  Americans  in  the  larger  European  cities, 
particularly  the  colonies  in  such  cities  as  Paris 
and  Rome  and  Florence.  In  Berlin,  the  Amer- 
ican colony  is  largely  made  up  of  music  students 
and  in  Vienna  of  physicians;  but  in  the  other 
places  many  folks  of  many  minds  and  many 
callings  constitute  the  groups.  Some  few  have 
left  their  country  for  their  country's  good  and 
some  have  expatriated  themselves  because,  as 
they  explain  in  bursts  of  confidence,  living  is 
cheaper  in  France  than  it  is  in  America.  I  sup- 
pose it  is,  too,  if  one  can  only  become  reconciled 
to  doing  without  most  of  the  comforts  which 
make  life  worth  while  in  America  or  anywhere 
[442] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


else.  Included  among  this  class  are  many  rather 
unhappy  old  ladies  who  somehow  impress  you 
as  having  been  shunted  off  to  foreign  parts  be- 
cause there  were  no  places  for  them  in  the  homes 
of  their  children  and  their  grandchildren.  So 
now  they  are  spending  their  last  years  among 
strangers,  trying  with  a  desperate  eagerness  to 
be  interested  in  people  and  things  for  which 
they  really  care  not  a  fig,  with  110  home  except  a 
cheerless  pension. 

Also  there  are  certain  folk — products,  in  the 
main,  of  the  Eastern  seaboard — who,  from  hav- 
ing originally  lived  in  America  and  spent  most 
of  their  time  abroad,  have  now  progressed  to 
the  point  where  they  now  live  mostly  abroad 
and  visit  America  fleetingly  once  in  a  blue  moon. 
As  a  rule  these  persons  know  a  good  deal  about 
Europe  and  very  little  about  the  country  that 
gave  them  birth.  The  stock-talk  of  European 
literature  is  at  their  tongue's  tip.  They  speak 
of  Ibsen  in  the  tone  of  one  mourning  the  passing 
of  a  near,  dear,  personal  friend,  and  as  for  Zola 
— ah,  how  they  miss  the  influence  of  his  com- 
pelling personality!  But  for  the  moment  they 
cannot  recall  whether  Richard  K.  Fox  ran  the 
Police  Gazette  or  wrote  the  "Trail  of  the  Lone- 
some Pine." 

They  are  up  on  the  history  of  the  Old  World. 
From  memory  they  trace  the  Bourbon  dynasty 
from  the  first  copper-distilled  Charles  to  the  last 
sourmashed  Louis.  But  as  regards  our  own 
Revolution,  they  aren't  quite  sure  whether  it 
[  443  1 


EUROPE    REVISED 


was  started  by  the  Boston  Tea  Party  or  Mrs. 
O'Leary's  Cow.  Languidly  they  inquire  whether 
that  quaint  Iowa  character,  Uncle  Champ  Root, 
is  still  Speaker  of  the  House?  And  so  the  present 
Vice-President  is  named  Elihu  Underwood?  Or 
isn't  he?  Anyway,  American  politics  is  such  a 
bore.  But  they  stand  ready,  at  a  minute's 
notice,  to  furnish  you  with  the  names,  dates  and 
details  of  all  the  marriages  that  have  taken 
place  during  the  last  twenty  years  in  the  royal 
house  of  Denmark. 

Some  day  we  shall  learn  a  lesson  from  Europe. 
Some  fair  day  we  shall  begin  to  exploit  our  own 
historical  associations.  We  shall  make  shrines 
of  the  spots  where  Washington  crossed  the  ice 
to  help  end  one  war  and  where  Eliza  did  the 
same  thing  to  help  start  another.  We  shall 
erect  stone  markers  showing  where  Charley  Ross 
was  last  seen  and  Carrie  Nation  was  first  sighted. 
We  shall  pile  up  tall  monuments  to  Sitting  Bull 
and  Nonpareil  Jack  Dempsey  and  the  man  who 
invented  the  spit  ball.  Perhaps  then  these 
truant  Americans  will  come  back  oftener  from 
Paris  and  Florence  and  abide  with  us  longer. 
Meanwhile  though  they  will  continue  to  stay 
on  the  other  side.  And  on  second  thought,  pos- 
sibly it  is  just  as  well  for  the  rest  of  us  that 
they  do. 

In  Europe  I  met  two  persons,  born  in  America, 
who  were  openly  distressed  over  that  shameful 
circumstance  and  could  not  forgive  their  parents 
for  being  so  thoughtless  and  inconsiderate.  One 
[444] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


was  living  in  England  and  the  other  was  living 
in  France;  and  one  was  a  man  and  the  other 
was  a  woman;  and  both  of  them  were  avowedly 
regretful  that  they  had  not  been  born  elsewhere, 
which,  I  should  say,  ought  to  make  the  senti- 
ment unanimous.  I  also  heard — at  second  hand 
— of  a  young  woman  whose  father  served  this 
country  in  an  ambassadorial  capacity  at  one  of 
the  principal  Continental  courts  until  the  ad- 
ministration at  Washington  had  a  lucid  interval, 
and  endeared  itself  to  the  hearts  of  practically 
all  Americans  residing  in  that  country  by  throw- 
ing a  net  over  him  and  yanking  him  back  home; 
this  young  woman  was  so  fearful  lest  some  one 
might  think  she  cherished  any  affection  for  her 
native  land  that  once  when  a  legation  secretary 
manifested  a  desire  to  learn  the  score  of  the 
deciding  game  of  a  World's  Series  between  the 
Giants  and  the  Athletics,  she  spoke  up  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses  and  said: 

"Ah,  baseball!  How  can  any  sane  person  be 
excited  over  that  American  game?  Tell  me — 
some  one  please — how  is  it  played?" 

Yet  she  was  born  and  reared  in  a  town  which 
for  a  great  many  years  has  held  a  membership 
in  the  National  League.  Let  us  pass  on  to  a 
more  pleasant  topic. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  those  well-meaning  but 
temporarily  misguided  persons  who  think  they 
are  going  to  be  satisfied  with  staying  on  indefi- 
nitely in  Europe.  They  profess  themselves  as 
being  amply  pleased  with  the  present  arrange- 
[445] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


ment.  For,  no  matter  how  patriotic  one  may 
be,  one  must  concede — mustn't  one? — that  for 
true  culture  one  must  look  to  Europe?  After 
all,  America  is  a  bit  crude,  isn't  it,  now?  Of 
course  some  time,  say  in  two  or  three  years 
from  now,  they  will  run  across  to  the  States 
again,  but  it  will  be  for  a  short  visit  only.  After 
Europe  one  can  never  be  entirely  happy  else- 
where for  any  considerable  period  of  time.  And 
so  on  and  so  forth. 

But  as  you  mention  in  an  offhand  way  that 
Cedar  Bluff  has  a  modern  fire  station  now,  or 
that  Tulsanooga  is  going  to  have  a  Great  White 
Way  of  its  own,  there  are  eyes  that  light  up 
with  a  wistful  light.  And  when  you  state  casu- 
ally, that  Polkdale  is  planning  a  civic  center 
with  the  new  county  jail  at  one  end  and  the 
Carnegie  Library  at  the  other,  lips  begin  to 
quiver  under  a  weight  of  sentimental  emotion. 
And  a  month  or  so  later  when  you  take  the  ship 
which  is  to  bear  you  home,  you  find  a  large 
delegation  of  these  native  sons  of  Polkdale  and 
Tulsanooga  on  board,  too. 

At  least  we  found  them  on  the  ship  we  took. 
We  took  her  at  Naples — a  big  comfortable  Ger- 
man ship  with  a  fine  German  crew  and  a  double 
force  of  talented  German  cooks  working  over- 
time in  the  galley  and  pantry — and  so  came 
back  by  the  Mediterranean  route,  which  is  a 
most  satisfying  route,  especially  if  the  sea  be 
smooth  and  the  weather  good,  and  the  steerage 
passengers  picturesque  and  light-hearted.  More- 
[446] 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 


over  the  coast  of  Northern  Africa,  lying  along 
the  southern  horizon  as  one  nears  Gibraltar,  is 
one  of  the  few  sights  of  a  European  trip  that 
are  not  disappointing.  For,  in  fact,  it  proves 
to  be  the  same  color  that  it  is  in  the  geographies 
— pale  yellow.  It  is  very  unusual  to  find  a 
country  making  an  earnest  effort  to  correspond 
to  its  own  map,  and  I  think  Northern  Africa 
deserves  honorable  mention  in  the  dispatches 
on  this  account. 


[447 


CHAPTER  XXV 
BE  IT  EVER  SO  HUMBLE 


HOMEWARD-BOUND,    a      chastened 
spirit  pervades  the  traveler.      He  is 
not  quite  so  much  inclined  to  be  gay 
and  blithesome  as  he  was  going.     The 
holiday  is   over;   the  sightseeing  is  done;  the 
letter  of  credit  is  worn  and  emaciated.    He  has 
been  broadened  by  travel  but  his  pocketbook 
has  been  flattened.    He  wouldn't  take  anything 
for  this  trip,  and  as  he  feels  at  the  present  mo- 
ment he  wouldn't  take  it  again  for  anything. 

It  is  a  time  for  casting  up  and  readjusting. 
Likewise  it  is  a  good  time  for  going  over,  in  the 
calm,  reflective  light  of  second  judgment,  the 
purchases  he  has  made  for  personal  use  and 
gift-making  purposes.  These  things  seemed 
highly  attractive  when  he  bought  them,  and 
when  displayed  against  a  background  of  home 
surroundings  will,  no  doubt,  be  equally  impres- 
sive; but  just  now  they  appear  as  rather  a  sad 
collection  of  junk.  His  English  box  coat  doesn't 
fit  him  any  better  than  any  other  box  would. 
[448] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


His  French  waistcoats  develop  an  unexpected 
garishness  on  being  displayed  away  from  their 
native  habitat  and  the  writing  outfit  which  he 
picked  up  in  Vienna  turns  out  to  be  faulty  and 
treacherous  and  inkily  tearful.  How  sharper 
than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  fountain 
pen — that  weeps!  And  why,  when  a  fountain 
pen  makes  up  its  mind  to  cry  a  spell,  does  it 
crawl  clear  across  a  steamer  trunk  and  bury  its 
sobbing  countenance  in  the  bosom  of  a  dress 
shirt? 

Likewise  the  first  few  days  at  sea  provide 
opportunity  for  sorting  out  the  large  and  varie- 
gated crop  of  impressions  a  fellow  has  been 
acquiring  during  all  these  crowded  months.  The 
way  the  homeward-bound  one  feels  now,  he 
would  swap  any  Old  Master  he  ever  saw  for  one 
peep  at  a  set  of  sanitary  bath  fixtures.  Sight 
unseen,  he  stands  ready  to  trade  two  cathedrals 
and  a  royal  palace  for  a  union  depot.  He  will 
never  forget  the  thrill  that  shook  his  soul  as 
he  paused  beneath  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon; 
but  he  feels  that,  not  only  his  soul  but  all  the 
rest  of  him,  could  rally  and  be  mighty  cheerful 
in  the  presence  of  a  dozen  deep-sea  oysters  on 
the  half  shell — regular  honest-to-goodness  North 
American  oysters,  so  beautifully  long,  so  grace- 
fully pendulous  of  shape  that  the  short-waisted 
person  who  undertakes  to  swallow  one  whole 
does  so  at  his  own  peril.  The  picture  of  the 
Coliseum  bathed  in  the  Italian  moonlight  will 
ever  abide  in  his  mind;  but  he  would  give  a  good 
[449] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


deal  for  a  large  double  sirloin  suffocated  Samuel 
J.  Tilden  style,  with  fried  onions.  Beefsteak! 
Ah,  what  sweet  images  come  thronging  at  the 
very  mention  of  the  word!  The  sea  vanishes 
magically  and  before  his  entranced  vision  he 
sees  The  One  Town,  full  of  regular  fellows  and 
real  people.  Somebody  is  going  to  have  fried 
ham  for  supper — five  thousand  miles  away  he 
sniffs  the  delectable  perfume  of  that  fried  ham 
as  it  seeps  through  a  crack  in  the  kitchen  win- 
dow and  wafts  out  into  the  street — and  the 
word  passes  round  that  there  is  going  to  be  a 
social  session  down  at  the  lodge  to-night,  fol- 
lowed, mayhap,  by  a  small  sociable  game  of 
quarter-limit  upstairs  over  Corbett's  drug-store. 
At  this  point,  our  traveler  rummages  his  Elks' 
button  out  of  his  trunk  and  gives  it  an  affec- 
tionate polishing  with  a  silk  handkerchief.  And 
oh,  how  he  does  long  for  a  look  at  a  home  news- 
paper— packed  with  wrecks  and  police  news  and 
municipal  scandals  and  items  about  the  per- 
sons one  knows,  and  chatty  mention  concerning 
Congressmen  and  gunmen  and  tango  teachers 
and  other  public  characters. 

Thinking  it  all  over  here  in  the  quiet  and 
privacy  of  the  empty  sea,  he  realizes  that  his 
evening  paper  is  the  thing  he  has  missed  most. 
To  the  American  understanding  foreign  papers 
seem  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made.  For  in- 
stance, German  newspapers  are  much  addicted 
to  printing  their  more  important  news  stories 
in  cipher  form.  The  German  treatment  of  a 
[450] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


suspected  crime  for  which  no  arrests  have  yet 
been  made,  reminds  one  of  the  jokes  which  used 
to  appear,  a  few  years  ago,  in  the  back  part  of 
Harper's  Magazine,  where  a  good  story  was 
always  being  related  of  Bishop  X,  residing  in 
the  town  of  Y,  who,  calling  one  afternoon  upon 
Judge  Z,  said  to  Master  Egbert,  the  pet  of  the 
household,  age  four,  and  so  on.  A  German  news- 
paper will  daringly  state  that  Banker  -  — , 

president  of  the  Bank  of at who  is 

suspected  of  sequestering  the  funds  of  that  in- 
stitution to  his  own  uses  is  reported  to  have  de- 
parted by  stealth  for  the  city  of  -  — ,  taking 
with  him  the  wife  of  Herr . 

And  such  is  the  high  personal  honor  of  the 
average  Parisian  news  gatherer  that  one  Paris 
morning  paper,  which  specializes  in  actual  news 
as  counterdistinguished  from  the  other  Paris 
papers  which  rely  upon  political  screeds  to  fill 
their  columns,  locks  its  doors  and  disconnects 
its  telephones  at  8  o'clock  in  the  evening,  so 
that  reporters  coming  in  after  that  hour  must 
stay  in  till  press  time  lest  some  of  them — such 
is  the  fear — will  peddle  all  the  exclusive  stories 
off  to  less  enterprising  contemporaries. 

English  newspapers,  though  printed  in  a  lan- 
guage resembling  American  in  many  rudimen- 
tary respects,  seem  to  our  conceptions  weird 
propositions,  too.  It  is  interesting  to  find  at 
the  tail  end  of  an  article  a  footnote  by  the 
editor  stating  that  he  has  stopped  the  presses 
to  announce  in  connection  with  the  foregoing 
[4511 


EUROPE    REVISED 


that  nothing  has  occurred  in  connection  with 
the  foregoing  which  would  justify  him  in  stop- 
ping the  presses  to  announce  it;  or  words  to  that 
effect.  The  news  stories  are  frequently  set  forth 
in  a  puzzling  fashion,  and  the  jokes  also.  That's 
the  principal  fault  with  an  English  newspaper 
joke — it  loses  so  in  translation  into  our  own 
tongue. 

Still,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  the  returning 
tourist,  if  he  be  at  all  fair-minded,  is  bound  to 
confess  to  himself  that,  no  matter  where  his 
steps  or  his  round  trip  ticket  have  carried  him, 
he  has  seen  in  every  country  institutions  and 
customs  his  countrymen  might  copy  to  their 
benefit,  immediate  or  ultimate.  Having  beheld 
these  things  with  his  own  eyes,  he  knows  that 
from  the  Germans  we  might  learn  some  much- 
needed  lessons  about  municipal  control  and  con- 
servation of  resources ;  and  from  the  French  and 
the  Austrians  about  rational  observance  of  days 
of  rest  and  simple  enjoyment  of  simple  outdoor 
pleasures  and  respect  for  great  traditions  and 
great  memories;  and  from  the  Italians,  about 
the  blessed  facility  of  keeping  in  a  good  humor; 
and  from  the  English,  about  minding  one's  own 
business  and  the  sane  rearing  of  children  and 
obedience  to  the  law  and  suppression  of  unneces- 
sary noises.  Whenever  I  think  of  this  last  God- 
given  attribute  of  the  British  race,  I  shall  recall 
a  Sunday  we  spent  at  Brighton,  the  favorite 
seaside  resort  of  middle-class  London.  Brighton 
was  fairly  bulging  with  excursionists  that  day. 
[452] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


A  good  many  of  them  were  bucolic  visitors  from 
up  country,  but  the  majority,  it  was  plain  to 
see,  hailed  from  the  city.  No  steam  carousel 
shrieked,  no  ballyhoo  blared,  no  steam  pianos 
shrieked,  no  barker  barked.  Upon  the  piers, 
stretching  out  into  the  surf,  bands  played 
soothingly  softened  airs  and  along  the  water 
front,  sand-artists  and  so-called  minstrel  singers 
plied  their  arts.  Some  of  the  visitors  fished — 
without  catching  anything — and  some  listened 
to  the  music  and  some  strolled  aimlessly  or  sat 
stolidly  upon  benches  enjoying  the  sea  air.  To 
an  American,  accustomed  at  such  places  to  din 
and  tumult  and  rushing  crowds  and  dangerous 
devices  for  taking  one's  breath  and  sometimes 
one's  life,  it  was  a  strange  experience,  but  a 
mighty  restful  one. 

On  the  other  hand  there  are  some  things 
wherein  we  notably  excel — entirely  too  many 
for  me  to  undertake  to  enumerate  them  here; 
still,  I  think  I  might  be  pardoned  for  enumerat- 
ing a  conspicuous  few.  We  could  teach  Europe 
a  lot  about  creature  comforts  and  open  plumb- 
ing and  personal  cleanliness  and  good  food  and 
courtesy  to  women — not  the  flashy,  cheap 
courtesy  which  impels  a  Continental  to  rise  and 
click  his  heels  and  bend  his  person  forward  from 
the  abdomen  and  bow  profoundly  when  a  strange 
woman  enters  the  railway  compartment  where 
he  is  seated,  while  at  the  same  time  he  leaves 
his  wife  or  sister  to  wrestle  with  the  heavy  lug- 
gage; but  the  deeper,  less  showy  instinct  which 
[4531 


EUROPE    REVISED 


makes  the  average  American  believe  that  every 
woman  is  entitled  to  his  protection  and  con- 
sideration when  she  really  needs  it.  In  the 
crowded  street-car  he  may  keep  his  seat;  in  the 
crowded  lifeboat  he  gives  it  up. 

I  almost  forgot  to  mention  one  other  detail 
in  which,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  we  lead  the 
whole  of  the  Old  World — dentistry.  Probably 
you  have  seen  frequent  mention  in  English  pub- 
lications about  decayed  gentlewomen.  Well, 
England  is  full  of  them.  It  starts  with  the 
teeth. 

The  leisurely,  long,  slantwise  course  across 
the  Atlantic  gives  one  time,  also,  for  making  the 
acquaintance  of  one's  fellow  passengers  and  for 
wondering  why  some  of  them  ever  went  to 
Europe  anyway.  A  source  of  constant  specula- 
tion along  these  lines  was  the  retired  hay-and- 
feed  merchant  from  Michigan  who  traveled  with 
us.  One  gathered  that  he  had  done  little  else 
in  these  latter  years  of  his  life  except  to  traipse 
back  and  forth  between  the  two  continents. 
What  particularly  endeared  him  to  the  rest  of 
us  was  his  lovely  habit  of  pronouncing  all  words 
of  all  languages  according  to  a  fonetic  system 
of  his  own.  "Yes,  sir,"  you  would  hear  him 
say,  addressing  a  smoking-room  audience  of  less 
experienced  travelers,  "my  idee  is  that  a  fellow 
ought  to  go  over  on  an  English  ship,  if  he  likes 
the  exclusability,  and  come  back  on  a  German 
ship  if  he  likes  the  sociableness.  Take  my  case. 
The  last  trip  I  made  I  come  over  on  the  Lucy 
[454] 


NEAEER   AND    NEARER    DRAWS    THAT    BLESSED    DARK-BLUE    STRIP 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


Tanner  and  went  back  agin  on  the  Grocer  K. 
First  and  enjoyed  it  both  ways  immense!" 

Nor  would  this  chronicle  be  complete  without 
a  passing  reference  to  the  lady  from  Cincinnati, 
a  widow  of  independent  means,  who  was  travel- 
ing with  her  two  daughters  and  was  so  often 
mistaken  for  their  sister  that  she  could  not  re- 
frain from  mentioning  the  remarkable  circum- 
stance to  you,  providing  you  did  not  win  her 
everlasting  regard  by  mentioning  it  first.  Like- 
wise I  feel  that  I  owe  the  tribute  of  a  line  to  the 
elderly  Britain  who  was  engaged  in  a  constant 
and  highly  successful  demonstration  of  the  fal- 
lacy of  the  claim  set  up  by  medical  practitioners, 
to  the  effect  that  the  human  stomach  can  con- 
tain but  one  fluid  pint  at  a  time.  All  day  long, 
with  his  monocle  goggling  glassily  from  the  midst 
of  his  face,  like  one  lone  porthole  in  a  tank 
steamer,  he  disproved  this  statement  by  prac- 
tical methods  and  promptly  at  nine  every  even- 
ing, when  his  complexion  had  acquired  a  rich 
magenta  tint,  he  would  be  carried  below  by  two 
accommodating  stewards  and  put — no,  not  put, 
decanted — would  be  decanted  gently  into  bed. 
If  anything  had  happened  to  the  port-light  of 
that  ship,  we  could  have  stationed  him  forward 
in  the  bows  with  his  face  looming  over  the  rail 
and  been  well  within  the  maritime  regulations 
—his  face  had  a  brilliancy  which  even  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  could  not  dim;  and  if  the  other 
light  had  gone  out  of  commission,  we  could  have 
impressed  the  aid  of  the  bilious  Armenian  lady 
[457] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


who  was  sick  every  minute  and  very  sick  for 
some  minutes,  for  she  was  always  of  a  glassy 
green  color. 

We  learned  to  wait  regularly  for  the  ceremony 
of  seeing  Sir  Monocle  and  his  load  toted  off  to 
bed  at  nine  o'clock  every  night,  just  as  we 
learned  to  linger  in  the  offing  and  watch  the 
nimble  knife-work  when  the  prize  invalid  of  the 
ship's  roster  had  cornered  a  fresh  victim.  The 
prize  invalid,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  state, 
was  of  the  opposite  sex.  So  many  things  ailed 
her — by  her  own  confession — that  you  wondered 
how  they  all  found  room  on  the  premises  at  the 
same  time.  Her  favorite  evening  employment 
was  to  engage  another  woman  in  conversation — 
preferably  another  invalid — and  by  honeyed 
words  and  congenial  confidences,  to  lead  the  un- 
suspecting prey  on  and  on,  until  she  had  her 
trapped,  and  then  to  turn  on  her  suddenly  and 
ridicule  the  other  woman's  puny  symptoms  and 
tell  her  she  didn't  even  know  the  rudiments  of 
being  ill  and  snap  her  up  sharply  when  she  tried 
to  answer  back.  And  then  she  would  deliver  a 
final  sting  and  go  away  without  waiting  to  bury 
her  dead.  The  poison  was  in  the  postscript — it 
nearly  always  is  with  that  type  of  female.  But 
afterward  she  would  justify  herself  by  saying 
people  must  excuse  her  manner — she  didn't 
mean  anything  by  it;  it  was  just  her  way,  and 
they  must  remember  that  she  suffered  constant- 
ly. Some  day  when  I  have  time,  I  shall  make 
that  lady  the  topic  of  a  popular  song.  I  have 
[4581 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


already  fabricated  the  refrain:  Her  heart  was 
in  the  right  place,  lads,  but  she  had  a  floating 
kidney ! 

Arrives  a  day  when  you  develop  a  growing 
distaste  for  the  company  of  your  kind,  or  in 
fact,  any  kind.  "Pis  a  day  when  the  sea,  grown 
frisky,  kicks  up  its  nimble  heels  and  tosses  its 
frothy  mane.  A  cigar  tastes  wrong  then  and 
the  mere  sight  of  so  many  meat  pies  and  so 
many  German  salads  at  the  entrance  to  the 
dining  salon  gives  one  acute  displeasure.  By 
these  signs  you  know  that  you  are  on  the  verge 
of  being  taken  down  with  climate  fever,  which, 
as  I  set  forth  many  pages  agone,  is  a  malady 
peculiar  to  the  watery  deep,  and  by  green  trav- 
elers is  frequently  mistaken  for  seasickness,  which 
indeed  it  does  resemble  in  certain  respects .  I  may 
say  that  I  had  one  touch  of  climate  fever  going 
over  and  a  succession  of  touches  coming  back. 

At  such  a  time,  the  companionship  of  others 
palls  on  one.  It  is  well  then  to  retire  to  the 
privacy  of  one's  stateroom  and  recline  awhile. 
I  did  a  good  deal  of  reclining,  coming  back;  I 
was  not  exactly  happy  while  reclining,  but  I  was 
happier  than  I  would  have  been  doing  anything 
else.  Besides,  as  I  reclined  there  on  my  cosy 
bed,  a  medley  of  voices  would  often  float  in  to 
me  through  the  half-opened  port  and  I  could 
visualize  the  owners  of  those  voices  as  they  sat 
ranged  in  steamer  chairs,  along  the  deck.  I 
quote: 

"You,  Raymund!  You  get  down  off  that 
[459] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


rail  this  minute."  .  .  .  "My  dear,  you  just 
ought  to  go  to  mine!  He  never  hesitates  a 
minute  about  operating,  and  he  has  the  loveliest 
manners  in  the  operating  room.  Wait  a  minute 
— I'll  write  his  address  down  for  you.  Yes,  he 
is  expensive,  but  very,  very  thorough."  .  .  . 
"Stew'd,  bring  me  nozher  brand'  'n'  sozza." 
.  .  .  "Well,  now  Mr. — excuse  me,  I  didn't 
catch  your  name? — oh  yes,  Mr.  Blosser;  well, 
Mr.  Blosser,  if  that  isn't  the  most  curious  thing ! 
To  think  of  us  meeting  away  out  here  in  the 
middle  of  the  ocean  and  both  of  us  knowing 
Maxie  Hockstein  in  Grand  Rapids.  It  only 
goes  to  show  one  thing — this  certainly  is  a 
mighty  small  world."  .  .  .  "Raymund,  did 
you  hear  what  I  said  to  you!" 

"Do  you  really  think  it  is  becoming?  Thank 
you  for  saying  so.  That's  what  my  husband 
always  says.  He  says  that  white  hair  with  a 
youthful  face  is  so  attractive,  and  that's  one 
reason  why  I've  never  touched  it  up.  Touched- 
up  hair  is  so  artificial,  don't  you  think?"  .  .  . 
"Wasn't  the  Bay  of  Naples  just  perfectly  swell 
— the  water,  you  know,  and  the  land  and  the 
sky  and  everything,  so  beautiful  and  every- 
thing?" .  .  .  "You  Raymund,  come  away 
from  that  lifeboat.  Why  don't  you  sit  down 
there  and  behave  yourself  and  have  a  nice 
time  watching  for  whales?"  .  .  .  "No, 
ma'am,  if  you're  askin'  me  I  must  say  I  didn't 
care  so  much  for  that  art  gallery  stuff — jest  a 
lot  of  pictures  and  statues  and  junk  like  that, 
[460] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


so  far  as  I  noticed.  In  fact  the  whole  thing — 
Yurupp  itself — was  considerable  of  a  disap- 
pointment to  me.  I  didn't  run  acros't  a  single 
Knights  of  Pythias  Lodge  the  whole  time  and 
I  was  over  there  five  months  straight  hand- 
runnin'."  .  .  .  "Really,  I  think  it  must  be 
hereditary;  it  runs  in  our  family.  I  had  an 
aunt  and  her  hair  was  snow-white  at  twenty-one 
and  my  grandmother  was  the  same  way."  .  .  . 
"Oh  yes,  the  suffering  is  something  terrible. 
You've  had  it  yourself  in  a  mild  form  and  of 
course  you  know.  The  last  time  they  operated 
on  me,  I  was  on  the  table  an  hour  and  forty 
minutes — mind  you,  an  hour  and  forty  minutes 
by  the  clock — and  for  three  days  and  nights 
they  didn't  know  whether  I  would  live  another 
minute." 

A  crash  of  glass. 

"Stew'd,  I  ashidently  turn'  over  m'  drink — 
bring  me  nozher  brand' 'n' sozza."  .  .  .  "Just 
a  minute,  Mr.  Blosser,  I  want  to  tell  my 
husband  about  it — he'll  be  awful  interested. 
Say,  listen,  Poppa,  this  gentleman  here  knows 
Maxie  Hockstein  out  in  Grand  Rapids."  .  .  . 
"Do  you  think  so,  really?  A  lot  of  people  have 
said  that  very  same  thing  to  me.  They  come 
up  to  me  and  say  'I  know  you  must  be  a  South- 
erner because  you  have  such  a  true  Southern 
accent.'  I  suppose  I  must  come  by  it  naturally, 
for  while  I  was  born  in  New  Jersey,  my  mother 
was  a  member  of  a  very  old  Virginia  family  and 
we've  always  been  very  strong  Southern  sym- 
[461] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


pathizers  and  I  went  to  a  finishing  school  in 
Baltimore  and  I  was  always  being  mistaken  for 
a  Southern  girl."  .  .  .  "Well,  I  sure  had 
enough  of  it  to  do  me  for  one  spell.  I  seen  the 
whole  shootin'  match  and  I  don't  regret  what 
it  cost  me,  but,  believe  me,  little  old  Keokuk  is 
goin'  to  look  purty  good  to  me  when  I  get  back 
there.  Why,  them  people  don't  know  no  more 
about  makin'  a  cocktail  than  a  rabbit."  .  .  . 
"That's  her  standing  yonder  talking  to  the  cap- 
tain. Yes,  that's  what  so  many  people  say,  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  she's  the  youngest  one  of 
the  two.  I  say,  'These  are  my  daughters,'  and 
then  people  say,  'You  mean  your  sisters.'  Still 
I  married  very  young — at  seventeen — and  pos- 
sibly that  helps  to  explain  it."  .  .  .  "Oh,  is 
that  a  shark  out  yonder?  Well,  anyway,  it's  a 
porpoise,  and  a  porpoise  is  a  kind  of  shark,  isn't 
it?  When  a  porpoise  grows  up,  it  gets  to  be 
a  shark — I  read  that  somewhere.  Ain't  nature 
just  wonderful?"  .  .  .  "Raymund  Walter 
Pelham,  if  I  have  to  speak  to  you  again,  young 
man,  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  the  stateroom 
and  give  you  something  you  won't  forget  in  a 
hurry."  .  .  .  "Stew'd,  hellup  me  gellup." 

Thus  the  lazy  hours  slip  by  and  the  spell  of 
the  sea  takes  hold  on  you  and  you  lose  count 
of  the  time  and  can  barely  muster  up  the  energy 
to  perform  the  regular  noonday  task  of  putting 
your  watch  back  half  an  hour.  A  passenger 
remarks  that  this  is  Thursday  and  you  wonder 
dimly  what  happened  to  Wednesday. 
[462] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


Three  days  more — just  three.  The  realiza- 
tion comes  to  you  with  a  joyous  shock.  Some- 
body sights  a  sea-gull.  With  eager  eyes  you 
watch  its  curving  flight.  Until  this  moment 
you  have  not  been  particularly  interested  in 
sea-gulls.  Heretofore,  being  a  sea-gull  seemed 
to  you  to  have  few  attractions  as  a  regular 
career,  except  that  it  keeps  one  out  in  the  open 
air;  otherwise  it  has  struck  you  as  being  rather 
a  monotonous  life  with  a  sameness  as  to  diet 
which  would  grow  very  tiresome  in  time.  But 
now  you  envy  that  sea-gull,  for  he  comes  direct 
from  the  shores  of  the  United  States  of  America 
and  if  so  minded  may  turn  around  and  beat 
you  to  them  by  a  margin  of  hours  and  hours  and 
hours.  Oh,  beauteous  creature!  Oh,  favored 
bird! 

Comes  the  day  before  the  last  day.  There  is 
a  bustle  of  getting  ready  for  the  landing.  Cus- 
toms blanks  are  in  steady  demand  at  the  purser's 
office.  Every  other  person  is  seeking  help  from 
every  other  person,  regarding  the  job  of  filling 
out  declarations.  The  women  go  about  with 
the  guilty  look  of  plotters  in  their  worried  eyes. 
If  one  of  them  fails  to  slip  something  in  without 
paying  duty  on  it  she  will  be  disappointed  for 
life.  All  women  are  natural  enemies  to  all  excise 
men.  Dirk,  the  Smuggler,  was  the  father  of 
their  race. 

Comes  the  last  day.  Dead  ahead  lies  a  misty, 
thread-like  strip  of  dark  blue,  snuggling  down 
against  the  horizon,  where  sea  and  sky  merge. 
[463] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


You  think  it  is  a  cloud  bank,  until  somebody 
tells  you  the  glorious  truth.  It  is  the  Western 
Hemisphere — your  Western  Hemisphere.  It  is 
New  England.  Dear  old  New  England !  Charm- 
ing people — the  New  Englanders !  Ah,  breathes 
there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead  who  never  to 
himself  has  said,  this  is  my  own,  my  native 
land?  Certainly  not.  A  man  with  a  soul  so 
dead  as  that  would  be  taking  part  in  a  funeral, 
not  in  a  sea  voyage.  Upon  your  lips  a  word 
hangs  poised.  What  a  precious  sound  it  has, 
what  new  meanings  it  has  acquired !  There  are 
words  in  our  language  which  are  singular  and 
yet  sound  plural,  such  as  politics  and  where- 
abouts; there  are  words  which  are  plural  and 
yet  sound  singular,  such  as  Brigham  Young,  and 
there  are  words  which  convey  their  exact  sig- 
nificance by  their  very  sound.  They  need  no 
word-chandlers,  no  adjective-smiths  to  dress, 
them  up  in  the  fine  feathers  of  fancy  phrasing. 
They  stand  on  their  own  merits.  You  think  of 
one  such  word — a  short,  sweet  word  of  but  four 
letters.  You  speak  that  word  reverently,  lov- 
ingly, caressingly. 

Nearer  and  nearer  draws  that  blessed  dark 
blue  strip.  Nan  tucket  light  is  behind  us.  Long 
Island  shoulders  up  alongside.  Trunks  accu- 
mulate in  gangways;  so  do  stewards  and  other 
functionaries.  You  have  been  figuring  upon  the 
tips  which  you  will  bestow  upon  them  at  part- 
ing; so  have  they.  It  will  be  hours  yet  before 
we  land.  Indeed,  if  the  fog  thickens,  we  may 
[464  ] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


not  get  in  before  to-morrow,  yet  people  run  about 
exchanging  good-byes  and  swapping  visiting 
cards  and  promising  one  another  they  will  meet 
again.  I  think  it  is  reckless  for  people  to  trifle 
with  their  luck  that  way. 

Forward,  on  the  lower  deck,  the  immigrants 
cluster,  chattering  a  magpie  chorus  in  many 
tongues.  The  four-and-twenty  blackbirds  which 
were  baked  in  a  pie  without  impairment  to  the 
vocal  cords  have  nothing  on  them.  Most  of 
the  women  were  crying  when  they  came  aboard 
at  Naples  or  Palermo  or  Gibraltar.  Now  they 
are  all  smiling.  Their  dunnage  is  piled  in  heaps 
and  sailors,  busy  with  ropes  and  chains  and 
things,  stumble  over  it  and  swear  big  round 
German  oaths. 

Why,  gracious!  We  are  actually  off  Sandy 
Hook.  Dear  old  Sandy — how  one  loves  those 
homely  Scotch  names!  The  Narrows  are  nigh 
and  Brooklyn,  the  City  Beautiful,  awaits  us 
around  the  second  turning  to  the  left.  The 
pilot  boat  approaches.  Brave  little  craft!  Gal- 
lant pilot!  Do  you  suppose  by  any  chance  he 
has  brought  any  daily  papers  with  him?  He 
has — hurrah  for  the  thoughtful  pilot!  Did 
you  notice  how  much  he  looked  like  the  pictures 
of  Santa  Claus? 

We  move  on  more  slowly  and  twice  again  we 
stop  briefly.  The  quarantine  officers  have  clam- 
bered up  the  sides  and  are  among  us;  and  to 
some  of  us  they  give  cunning  little  thermometers 
to  hold  in  our  mouths  and  suck  on,  and  of 
[465  ] 


EUROPE    REVISED 


others  they  ask  chatty,  intimate  questions  with 
a  view  to  finding  out  how  much  insanity  there 
is  in  the  family  at  present  and  just  what  per- 
centage of  idiocy  prevails?  Three  cheers  for  the 
jolly  old  quarantine  regulations.  Even  the  ad- 
vance guard  of  the  customhouse  is  welcomed  by 
one  and  all — or  nearly  all. 

Between  wooded  shores  which  seem  to  ad- 
vance to  meet  her  in  kindly  greeting,  the  good 
ship  shoves  ahead.  For  she  is  a  good  ship,  and 
later  we  shall  miss  her,  but  at  this  moment  we 
feel  that  we  can  part  from  her  without  a  pang. 
She  rounds  a  turn  in  the  channel.  What  is  that 
mass  which  looms  on  beyond,  where  cloud- 
combing  office  buildings  scallop  the  sky  and 
bridges  leap  in  far-flung  spans  from  shore  to 
shore?  That's  her — all  right — the  high  picketed 
gateway  of  the  nation.  That's  little  old  New 
York.  Few  are  the  art  centers  there,  and  few 
the  ruins;  and  perhaps  there  is  not  so  much 
culture  lying  round  loose  as  there  might  be — 
just  bustle  and  hustle,  and  the  rush  and  crush 
and  roar  of  business  and  a  large  percentage  of 
men  who  believe  in  supporting  their  own  wives 
and  one  wife  at  a  time.  Crass  perhaps,  crude 
perchance,  in  many  ways,  but  no  matter.  All 
her  faults  are  virtues  now.  Beloved  metropolis, 
we  salute  thee!  And  also  do  we  turn  to  salute 
Miss  Liberty. 

This  series  of  adventure  tales  began  with  the 
Statue  of  Liberty  fading  rearward  through  the 
harbor  mists.  It  draws  to  a  close  with  the  same 
[466] 


BE    IT    EVER    SO    HUMBLE 


old  lady  looming  through  those  same  mists  and 
drawing  ever  closer  and  closer.  She  certainly 
does  look  well  this  afternoon,  doesn't  she?  She 
always  does  look  well,  somehow. 

We  slip  past  her  and  on  past  the  Battery  too; 
and  are  nosing  up  the  North  River.  What  a 
picturesque  stream  it  is,  to  be  sure!  And  how 
full  of  delightful  rubbish!  In  twenty  minutes 
or  less  we  shall  be  at  the  dock.  Folks  we  know 
are  there  now,  waiting  to  welcome  us. 

As  close  as  we  can  pack  ourselves,  we  gather 
in  the  gangways.  Some  one  raises  a  voice  in 
song.  'Tis  not  the  Marseillaise  hymn  that  we 
sing,  nor  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein,  nor  Ava  Maria, 
nor  God  Save  the  King;  nor  yet  is  it  Columbia 
the  Gem  of  the  Ocean.  In  their  proper  places 
these  are  all  good  songs,  but  we  know  one  more 
suitable  to  the  occasion,  and  so  we  all  join  in. 
Hark !  Happy  voices  float  across  the  narrowing 
strip  of  roily  water  between  ship  and  shore: 

'  'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces, 
Though  we  may  roam, 

(Now  then,  altogether,  mates:) 

Be  it  ever  so  humble, 
There's  no  place  like 

HOME!" 


[467] 


EUROPE 


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